A Study in Magic
by Vixit
Summary: <html><head></head>When Albus Dumbledore shows up at Baker Street with strange demands and baby-filled picnic baskets, Sherlock Holmes is less than thrilled. Featuring Detective!Harry, Competent!Quirrell, and the world's only private consulting detective. No slash.</html>
1. Ch 1, Unexpected Beginnings

The following account details a bizarre and wholly unexpected series of events known as _A Study in Magic._ To those readers who scoff at this title, I pray you read with mind open and unbiased. I too was once the skeptic, one who chuckled softly at the childish concept of magic.

Such views have long since been revised.

It began one brisk Tuesday morning, when the world's only private consulting detective and I were interrupted from breakfast by a sharp, single knock upon the door.

Sherlock Holmes, in his infinitely casual manner, continued to scan the morning paper, no doubt engrossed in the multitude of sordid crimes London had to offer. "Do get the door, Watson, and let our guests in."

Crossing to the entryway, I opened the door to reveal a pair of characters, each possessing a most extraordinary appearance. One of them, a gentleman greatly advanced in years, peered at me over half-moon spectacles. He carried a covered picnic basket, and was dressed queerly in purple robes. Behind him stood a severe-looking middle-aged woman, dressed similarly in black.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked the gentleman.

Sherlock folded his paper and rose, walking to us. "Here," he said, beckoning our visitors inside and shutting the door. "_I_ am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my compatriot, Dr. Watson, and we are both, I'm sure, at your service. Please, seat yourselves."

The woman seemed pleased at Holmes' hospitality. An old soul, I wagered, the type who still put stock in such things (much like myself, it must be said). The gentleman, however, seemed somewhat more casual in his outlook. He arranged himself at the breakfast table, in my recently vacated seat, no less. Looking over the remains of our breakfast, he peeked into the teapot before pouring a cup of earl grey.

I can't say I approved his deplorable manners, and glancing at the mystery woman, determined I was not alone in annoyance. If her countenance was any indication, she thought his manners rather lacking as well. Discomfiture assuaged, I turned my attention to my old friend.

Holmes had quietly observed our guest's breech of conduct from the mantle, though he held little (if any) importance to such social conventions. Deftly lighting a pipe, he crossed the room, sitting across from our visitor. "Might I inquire," he asked, "My guest's names?"

The old man swallowed a sip of tea, setting his cup down with a nod of appreciation. "Albus Dumbledore. And please, just Albus will suffice. My companion," he gestured to the lady with waggling fingers, "Is Professor Minerva McGonagall."

The woman tilted her head briefly towards me, and I returned the curt gesture. She was Scottish then, but Dumbledore? That was a name I hadn't heard before (or since), and one that seemed more joke than name.

"A very unusual surname," said Holmes, "I must admit, Albus, it's one even I am not familiar with. But etymology interests me considerably less than the purpose of your visit."

Holmes leaned forward, eyes slightly closing, bringing his latest curiosity into sharp focus. "I observe from your appearance none of the signs of long travel, and yet, you both are clearly not natives to England. Tell me, how have you arrived in London?"

Minerva answered immediately, as if on cue. "We just got off our flight, Mr. Holmes. Came straight to Baker Street, in fact. We were very anxious to speak with you."

Holmes blew out a small ring of smoke, watching it rise to the ceiling. Albus also eyed the ring's progress before rummaging in his robes. With a small noise of satisfaction, he drew forth a pipe. To my shock, it was already lit, and he began puffing upon it without preamble.

Holmes sat up stiffly. "Now that _is_ a beautiful pipe. Meerschaum, isn't it?" he asked, extending a hand. "May I?"

Albus handed over the pipe, which Holmes examined closely before returning with a frown. He then turned to address Minerva.

"As for your claim," said Holmes, "You may wish to note, madam, for future conversations, that I am not quite so easily deceived."

Minerva opened her mouth, rebuttal ready, but Holmes held up his hand, forestalling any argument. "Please, my dear woman, do not try to convince me otherwise. As I've just said, your robes, outlandish though they may be, do not tell the story of a long flight. Your clothes are unwrinkled and without a single crease. I think we can agree that not even the most callous airline would force it's passengers to remain standing."

Minerva stared at Sherlock for a moment before Albus chuckled, drawing the room's attention. "A keen observation," he said, "I must say, I'm rather relieved. Your reputation seems to be well founded."

Holmes waved aside the man's commendation. "Perhaps now you'll tell me the purpose of your visit? I strongly suspect it pertains to the picnic basket you've yet to release."

Shifting slightly, I was able to see that, indeed, the old man still held the basket's handle in a casual grip.

Albus lifted the container and handed it towards Minerva. "Right again, Mr. Holmes. If you would, Minerva?"

Minerva gently, almost reverently, took the offered basket and raised the lid. To my astonishment, within lay a baby. A doctor's instincts took hold as I noted the sleeping babe's forehead; it bore a peculiar scar, consisting of three lines connected at acute angles. The cut's regularity showed the wound be, without a doubt, the result of deliberate intent.

Albus favored the boy with a fond look. "It's my distinct pleasure, gentlemen, to introduce Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived."

Holmes nodded vaguely in the child's direction, never taking his sight off of the man before him. "Charmed," he replied, "I'm sure. But why is he here?"

"I had rather hoped you could keep him safe, for a short time, at least."

"How long?"

Albus tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, no more than…let's say eighteen years? Although," he was quick to add, "It could be considerably less than that, depending on the circumstances."

I gave a small, choked cough. Holmes continued to coolly stare at Albus.

"I decline."

Albus nodded, seeming to expect this answer. "Unfortunately, you don't have much choice in this matter." Holmes raised an eyebrow, and Albus chuckled. "Oh, it's not a threat, Mr. Holmes. It's a simple matter of confidence. I'm quite sure you'll accept."

Holmes seemed to fight off the urge to scoff, instead settling for raising a single, sweeping eyebrow. "And why, pray tell, would I accept this...generous offer?"

"Because you're like me. You're a lover of knowledge, anyone can see that, and Harry would give you access to worlds of knowledge that you are currently in complete ignorance of."

Holmes continued to languidly smoke, a perfect picture of a man unconcerned and unruffled. "A good try, but your notions are slightly misinformed. I have a great love of knowledge, as you say, but only when that knowledge pertains, in some way, to criminology."

"There are criminals of a nature you're not aware of, Mr. Holmes."

"And what nature is that?"

Albus' eyes twinkled mischievously. "Magic."

The roomed filled with an awkward silence until, unable to contain myself, I burst forth with an indignant exclamation. "Really, now! Be serious, man!"

Holmes' stared at Albus, attempting to bore straight into the old man's head through force of gaze alone. "I must admit, your trick with the pipe has me puzzled."

I was lost now, and glanced confusedly between the two men. Minerva watched my companion with a sudden interest. "The devil do you mean, Holmes?" I weakly asked. "The pipe?"

"Yes Watson, the pipe. Our new friend took from his robes a lit pipe, a feat which grows into more than a mere trick when we consider two simple observations. One: I could not detect the slightest hint of tobacco smoke before he presented it, indicating the pipe was not previously lit and waiting to be revealed. And two: Earlier, when I was graciously allowed to examine said pipe, I found the bowl quite hot. Evidently, it had been lit for some time."

Minerva was looking decidedly nervous, though I could not for the life of me imagine why.

"These two observations," said Holmes, "Lead my conclusion to, seemingly, a paradox." My friend gave a sharp laugh, and carefully considered a widely grinning Albus Dumbledore. "An impressive trick. If you could explain its execution, I would be most grateful."

Albus shrugged. "I told you. It's magic, plain and simple."

Holmes' eyes flashed with irritation. "Let me be frank, Albus. I tire of these-"

My irate friend was silenced more effectively than if I'd knocked him over the head. For, with no movement whatsoever, and only the smallest of sounds to mark his passing, Albus Dumbledore had quite suddenly and quite completely disappeared.

I let out a cry, stepped backwards, and toppled over a footstool. Holmes' reaction was less dramatic, though no less out of character. He dropped his pipe, heedless of the scattering ashes, and seemed to coil like a spring. Face ghost-white, he reached out and waved a hand through the space Albus had so recently occupied.

From the far side of the room, cutting through the silence, came the unmistakable voice of our vanished guest. "Magic is no idle trick, my boy. It is a world hidden beneath your very nose, and one you can be a part of, if only you raise the boy."

Holmes had yet to rise from his seat. Indeed, he had not even turned toward the voice. He stared straight ahead, breath shallow, while a wild grin stretched his face. His eyes held a look I'd witnessed many times; the singular spark that arose only when confronted by problems of the most baffling and exciting perplexity.

Rising slowly, Holmes turned around, facing the direction from which the voice had emanated. For perhaps ten full seconds, he stood absolutely still, eyes scanning the apartment relentlessly. Then, with long, confident strides, he crossed the far side of the room, stopping next to the window. Standing alone, he extended a hand to the empty air, as if for a handshake.

"Well played," he said. "I accept the responsibility, on one condition."

As suddenly as he left, Albus returned, his hand clasped in Holmes'.

I looked on in bewilderment, uncomprehending. Beside me, Minerva let out a soft exclamation.

"But how?" she asked. "How did he know, Albus?"

Looking up from my spot on the floor, I saw her staring at my friend with undisguised astonishment. The irony was not lost on me, despite my state. Even in the midst of unprecedented happenings, Sherlock still managed to make the strongest of first impressions.

Holmes turned toward to Minerva, composure in such a state that one doubted it had ever left. "Elementary, my dear woman. As I'm sure Albus has already guessed, a man may turn invisible, but he still leaves footprints in the carpet."

I looked to the floor, endeavoring to spot the signs he spoke of. I could see no clues in the carpet, and if Minerva's puzzled look was any indication, neither did she. My eyes met hers briefly, and I beheld a glimmer of confusion, no doubt reflected within my own. With that small comfort, I found myself drawn back to the scene unfolding before me.

"Condition?" asked Albus.

"A pittance, I assure you," Holmes replied, "But one I insist on."

"Then by all means, insist."

Holmes spared the babe's picnic basket a glance. "I need assurance, absolute assurance that I can the raise the boy as I see fit.

Albus nodded. "Of course. I'll leave such matters in your more than capable hands." The headmaster adjusted his spectacles, peering over them at Holmes. "A few caveats will apply, naturally, but I'm curious why you're so insistent. Making plans already, Mr. Holmes?"

"No more than you have, I'm sure. But if you're that curious, then yes, I'll admit to having some plans for the boy."

I watched this exchange in silence, as did Minerva, though she looked uneasy at Holmes proclamation.

Dumbledore smiled broadly before succumbing to soft laughter. His mirth subsided shortly, and he wiped at the corners of his eyes. "As one schemer to other, I feel obliged to warn you: Don't plan to far ahead. Magic tends to change things, plans especially."

Through the remaining morning Albus and Holmes sat near the fireplace, talking of history, England, and magic. Very often the conversation would twist alarmingly off course, hurtling down seemingly unrelated tangents, though neither seemed to mind. If there was structure to their conversation, I could not see it, save for an underlying (if horribly disjointed) arc. Through the hail of Holmes' questions, Albus wove a startling tale. He spoke of a Dark Lord holding England sway, until at the very height of power, he fell to the most unlikely foe; a newly born boy bearing the name of Potter.

That day, as the mundane and magical worlds collided in a Baker Street sitting room, Harry Holmes-Potter slept peacefully.

-oOo-

Such was the tumultuous start to _A Study in Magic_. A case which lasted many years, and consisted of strange characters and stranger circumstances. But above all, it was chiefly defined by two individuals: A cold man who learned to love, and a boy who learned to truly see.

- Excerpt from a _A Study in Magic_, by John Watson, MD


	2. Ch 2, The Early Years

From the beginning, I was doubtful of Holmes ability to care for young Harry. His personality was abrasive and brutally practical, and not at all suited for fatherhood. However, my fears were laid swiftly to rest, as Holmes immediately employing the services of Ms. Haversham, an imminently competent nurse, to care for the young infant's needs.

During the early years of Harry's life, very little was changed at 221 B, Baker's Street. I continued my medical practice, and Holmes continued to embroil himself in mad schemes of crime and detection. The only noticeable difference was the addition of baby wails, a high-pitched noise that became all too commonplace in our apartment. I found the sound distracting me considerably at times. Not so Holmes, who took to keeping a cotton ball stuffed in each ear.

Harry Potter grew quickly and (to my endless surprise), became quite attached to his distinctly _de_tached surrogate father. I would often in the evening and find Holmes fiddling with his chemistry set, while young Harry sat contentedly beside him. The child's eyes would invariably be wide as saucers, captivating by the display of shining glass, listening to Holmes ramble on about the properties and applications of this and that chemical.

The years passed smoother than I would have believed possible, until Harry's eighth birthday. On that day, I returned home to the conspicuous absence of Ms. Haversham. Holmes was enjoying his pipe, blowing the smoke (as he had since Harry's arrival) out of an open window. Harry was reading near the fireplace, curled into an overstuffed armchair.

I walked over to the boy and tousled his hair. That morning I had given him another one of my works, the _Sign of the Four_. "How's the story?" I asked.

Harry gave a distracted swat at my hand, eyes never leaving the page. "Uuuncle, I'm at a good part."

I backed away, smiling, and sat at the table. "Did Ms. Haversham step out, Holmes? We're running low on tea."

Holmes knocked the ashes out of his pipe and closed the window. "I've let her go, Watson."

A vague worry began to grow in my gut. I'd long since learned to trust such feelings. "Let her go?"

"Yes. Harry can take of himself now. Her services were no longer required."

Holmes approached a bookcase, pulling off a book. Glancing through, he quickly returned it to the shelf before removing another. I stared at him, sputtering incoherently.

"B-but..." The words I needed to to deal with Holmes latest liberty struggled to come forth. "You can't…who's going to watch him? You can't just leave him here!"

"Don't be absurd, Watson. _I _will watch him, of course."

The more he spoke, the more my worry grew. Holmes continued to take books from the shelves; some he returned, and others he added to a rapidly growing pile. He spared a glance in my direction, and must have seem some semblance of abject horror upon my face.

"Don't worry," he said, "Harry is quite capable of caring for himself, and I'll keep a close eye on him."

"But your cases, Holmes!"

"As I said, I'll be sure to keep a very close eye on him."

"Holmes, I absolutely will not-"

A small tug on my sleeve put an abrupt halt to my objections. I looked down into a pair of very wide, green eyes.

"It's all right, Uncle Watson. Really."

Harry looked up at me, employing a heart-rending expression. I quickly turned away from him, having fallen prey that particular look more than once before, usually resulting in his acquisition of sweets. Not this time. I steeled my resolve and stared into the fireplace

"And what about his schooling?" I asked.

Holmes set a final book onto the pile beside him. The thick tome landed with a decisive thump. He turned to me, smiling broadly. "I've already taken steps to remove him from school." he gave the pile of books an affectionate pat. "The books and I will be more than a sufficient education."

I lifted a book from the pile top. The title did not inspire confidence. "Bauhauser's Entry Chemistry Companion, Third Edition. Blast it, Holmes! Harry can't read this! _I_ can't read this!"

"I think you rather underestimate him," Holmes tutted, "Besides, I've included several dictionaries and reference works."

"Hang the reference works! Harry! Tell him…"

The boy was back into his chair, curled up and happily reading, having scooped up a work titled _Studies in Forensic Psychology_.

"You see?" said Holmes. "I never doubted it."

-oOo-

One evening, after a tiresome day at my practice, I arrived home to find Holmes pacing outside our apartment door. He spied my approach, and beckoned me to his side.

"Trouble?" I asked.

"No," he said, "No trouble. Not yet, at least."

I frowned and set my doctor's bag to the ground. Whenever you want a relaxing cuppa most... "What do you mean, not yet?"

"I'm about to undertake a rather...delicate procedure. It's about Harry, and I wanted to warn you ahead of time."

I stilled my hand, clenching it tight before I could grasp the doorknob to our apartment. "He's alright?"

"Perfectly, Watson. I merely needed to inform you ahead of time, not to interfere. Harry and I will be conducting a little experiment."

"I've never interfered before, have I?" I scrutinized his blank expression, trying to divine some hidden meaning from his words. "What are you up to, Holmes?"

"Ms. Haversham's has been gone for quite some time. I see no reason for any concealment past this point. That is to say, I think it is time to inform Harry of his…unique abilities."

"But Dumbledore-"

"Dumbledore is not here. But more importantly, lest you've forgotten, our dear Headmaster was only worried about the ugly influence fame might have on a young child. He gave no restrictions on revealing Harry's magical heritage."

I thought back to the day Harry arrived, many years ago, and remembered Dumbledore's story of the Boy Who Lived. In those early days (and yes, even now), I found such stories hard to believe. Harry seemed so normal. Brighter than most his age, perhaps, but still just a boy.

Holmes watched the emotions play across my face, cataloging each, no doubt, as a calmly and efficiently as a factory machine sorting goods. At last, he favored me with a comforting smile. "He deserves to know, Watson."

"He's so young," I sighed, "How are you going about it, then?"

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. "Good man. And not to worry, I'll be using a delicate touch. Certainly not by pounding down the door and telling him straight out."

"So what do you propose?"

"I' propose we let him find out for himself."

With that, Holmes opened the door and strode into the sitting room. I followed with a puzzled frown on my face, and shut the door behind. I noted Harry by in his usual spot by the fire, lost in some heavy book. Sitting myself, I watched Holmes rummage in a desk drawer, pull out a small object, and conceal it in his hand.

"Harry," he said, "Up for an experiment tonight?"

The boy hopped up, book falling to the floor forgotten, and rushed over. "One with the chemistry set?"

Holmes smiled. "More Newtonian. Here" From behind his back he presented Harry with a small rubber ball. "The task is simple. Using only this ball and a stable surface, you most cause said ball to bounce a minimum of two times."

Harry gave his adoptive father a dubious look.

"But," Holmes continued, "It must rise _higher_ on the second bounce than the first."

Harry rolled his eyes. "So, it's like an exercise in impossi-"

Holmes leveled a serious look at the boy. "And, young man, you'll be restricted from any new reading material until you've successfully finished the task."

"WHAT!"

"I'll give you a hint. The solution lies in how you impart spin to the ball."

Harry immediately went to the table and, with a look of intense focus, began lightly bouncing the ball, deftly twisting his hand as he dropped it.

I shook my head. What the devil was Holmes up to?

For the next five hours, the only sounds were of a quietly bouncing ball, and of Holmes playing a simple tune on the violin. I dozed in my chair, waking several times to the same scene; Holmes playing, and Harry getting more and more frustrated.

At last, near one o'clock in the morning, I woke to a great shout. Bolting upright, I observed Holmes smoking next to an open window, while Harry caroused about the table, face ecstatic, holding aloft the ball.

Holmes left his pipe on the windowsill, and walked to the table. "Demonstrate."

Harry seriously sat down, and raised his hand above the table, ball grasped lightly between his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he violently twisted his hand and dropped the ball, watching it with narrowed eyes.

The ball bounced once, and rose, perhaps, three inches before falling. On the second bounce, it rose at least twelve inches. It was the most unnatural thing I'd yet to see.

Harry grinned up at Holmes, who nodded. "And how," asked Holmes, "Did you accomplish that?"

"Like you said," said Harry, "I just had to find the right way to spin-"

"I lied."

Harry stared at him, shock plainly evident on his face. Holmes had never once lied to the boy.

"Come now," said Holmes, "You said it was impossible before you began. You've adequate knowledge of physics for this, so what happened? Observe and deduce."

Harry sat in his chair, silent. Minutes passed, and beads of sweat gathered on his brow. Finally, he looked down at his lap, and spoke very softly. "I don't know."

"And that," said Holmes, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder, "Is perfectly alright. Ignorance isn't a crime, as long as you're willing to learn."

Holmes stood back up and began pacing slowly around the table. "Once upon a time, I faced a similar problem. A seeming violation of reality. It involved a rather mysterious old man and his pipe. When I-yes, _I-_confessed ignorance, he told the most remarkable thing I'd heard in a very long time."

"What did he say?" asked Harry.

"He said-_-_and I later ascertained it to be absolutely true-that the phenomenon was a direct result of magic."

Harry blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it. He repeated this pattern three times. In a sudden fancy, I believed I could hear the gears within his head, grinding and whirring madly, throwing out words too fast for his mouth to keep up.

At length, he gave a single nod. "Teach me."

Watching Harry calmly accept a new aspect of reality (indeed, of his very _self_), I was struck by an uncanny sense of déjà vu. I was reminded strongly of the day Holmes first learned of magic's existence. Like Harry, he too had assimilated the knowledge with unnatural ease, in stark contrast with myself.

So went the first of many 'impossible' tests, each carefully designed to train Harry's innate power. They became a common occurrence at Baker Street, helping the years to pass quickly, with Harry growing in strength of mind, body, and magic. But such tests were no the only training he received.

Many nights I would spend waiting for the return of Holmes, who allowed Harry to accompany him on various cases. I would watch the clock with certain dread, sure some horrible fate had befallen the boy. Of course, they would invariably wander home in fine spirits, well past Harry's bedtime (something which Holmes refused to acknowledge). My insistence on sleep would be completely ignored as they sat around the fireplace, discussing various aspects of the case at hand.

As they spoke, Holmes would question Harry about the night's events, probing the depths of his ability to retain seemingly (to my ears, at least) inconsequential details. Under such tutelage, Harry's power of observation flourished with fantastic speed, growing into a formidable force. In time, his deductions took on such a flawless, piercing quality, that I began to suspect the involvement of magic, though he would always deny such claims.

Had I known those days could not last, I would have committed more time to our unlikely family. All too soon a change would come, spear-headed by a letter from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

_-_Excerpt from_ A Study in Magic_, by John Watson, MD


	3. Ch 3, Dartmoor

_To this day, I believe Sherlock's greatest secret (even from himself) was longing for a protégé. Of course, the possibility of him siring a son remains, as always, an impossibility. No woman has, nor ever will, thaw the cold, mechanical core of his being. The fairer sex, to him, was most appreciated as indirect instigators of crime. What better to flair a man's emotions than love lost, scorned, or withheld?_

_I thank Albus Dumbledore and his machinations, for if Holmes had been left to his own devices, I expect he would still be without a ward._

_Thankfully, the matter was forced, and Holmes threw himself into Harry's raising-and training-with all the passion of a man possessed._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

"Too far, Holmes! This time you went too bloody far!"

"I understand you're upset, but the fact is-"

"The_ fact _is he almost broke his leg!" Watson shouted. The doctor paused, and suddenly paled. "Good god...he could have been killed."

Annoyance flashed across Holmes' face. "Don't be ridiculous. A fall from that height?"

In a chair next to the fireplace, Harry inwardly sighed, and tried to focus on his book. This was the third argument this week.

Doctor and Detective glared at one another, each astounded by the other's audacity.

Holmes pinched the bridge of his nose. "Would some guidelines ease your worry?"

"Guidelines?"

Holmes held up three fingers. "Each of us—you, Harry, and I, will pick one rule for the testing procedures. Non-negotiable. "

Watson gave him a calculating look; Holmes had trapped him with wordplay on more than one occasion. But a rule, and non-negotiable…

"Agreed," said Watson. Giving Holmes a final, wary look, Watson turned and walked to Harry's reading chair. Bending down, he began whispering in the boy's ear. At length, Harry nodded, and the two came to stand before Sherlock; Watson with glinting eyes, and Harry with nose still firmly in his book.

At a nudge from the doctor, Harry spoke, eyes never leaving ink and paper. "If I want it to stop, the test stops."

"If he's in danger," said Watson, "The test stops."

Casually (too casually, in Watson's opinion) Holmes sat, and idly packed a pipe with tobacco. "If Harry stops a test, I'll never give another."

From that day on, once a test began, Harry never quit. But never did he come closer to doing than during his time in Dartmoor. And never did a test reap such rewards.

-oOo-

Try as he might, Harry could not come up with a compliment for the moor. Maybe in the light of day he could find something, but at night, whatever positive points the land may have had bled dry.

Harry and Sherlock were currently bouncing in the back of an old horse-drawn buggy. All around, as far as Harry could see, were grey hills dotted with bracken and stone. A constant wind tugged and cut at their bundled forms.

Gone was the excitement from when Sherlock showed him two train tickets for Dartmoor. Gone was the curiosity when Holmes booked a room at a local inn. All that remained was boredom and vague unease, as if the bleak surroundings were sapping the enthusiasm from his very bones.

Three miles into the countryside, long after the village lights faded behind rolling hills, Holmes tapped the driver. "Here's good. We'll walk back."

The driver and Harry both turned, incredulous, as Holmes clambered down. Harry reluctantly followed.

With a shake of his head, the driver tuned his buggy around, muttering under his breath about the antics of fool tourists.

Harry buttoned his jacket higher, looking around at the gloom. "So, what now?"

"Now we start the test."

Harry nodded, prompting Holmes to continue.

"Simple rules. I walk back to the inn, and you follow." He handed Harry a digital watch. "You'll need this."

"Why?"

"So you can wait one hour before following. Tah." With a jaunty wave, Holmes jogged off, quickly melting into the night.

Standing alone in the dark, Harry belatedly realized Sherlock had not jogged down the road towards town.

He'd gone off into the moor.

Sitting on the cold ground, Harry curled together, clutching the watch close. Wind whistled through the grass and bracken. Small nocturnal noises caused his head to swivel nervously. And as time crept forward, all he could think of was going home, curling next to the fireplace, and reading Watson's latest manuscript.

Never did one hour seem so long.

-oOo-

If anyone had seen, they'd pity the lonely figure stumbling through the night, shivering and uncertain. In that overwhelming darkness, it was by sheer luck that Harry found a footprint. Regardless of that windfall, he was dangerously close to reaching the point where all small, scratched, and tired children just wanted to sit down and cry, no matter how hard they wanted not to.

In fact, the only thing that kept Harry in motion was a single, irrefutable thought. No matter the task, no matter how scary and impossible this task seemed, Harry was sure Sherlock Holmes would have emerged the victor.

Maybe, Harry thought, if he'd just been a little smarter, just paid more attention and read more books. Maybe then he could do it too. Maybe then he could live up to lofty standards Sherlock so clearly held for him.

At that precise moment, looking down at a lonely footprint, with thoughts turning to despair, a desperate something deep inside Harry snapped. And as it snapped, Harry beheld the most unexpected of things.

The footprint, in all its crushed and muddy glory, was veiled in soft golden light.

Some feet away, Harry saw another, similar glow. Despair forgotten, he rushed over, and found it wreathed a portion of mossy rock. In its glow he could just make out a gouge in the moss, clearly marked by the sole of a shoe.

Harry smiled. He laughed. And then he was off. Flitting from the rock, he began the game in earnest.

The light, he found, said nothing of his quarry's direction, speed, or condition. It merely highlighted the clues and drew his attention. Without that golden light, Harry was sure those clues could never be found, not by him, at any rate. They were too small, too subtle, and hidden by night from mere human sight.

Slowly but surely, he deduced the path from each glow to the next, and prayed the magic would last.

-oOo-

Hours later, a weary boy followed a footprint to the top of a hill. Looking down he saw light, not of gold, but a small country inn. Harry vaguely recognized it as the inn Sherlock had checked into that morning. Through hazy vision he could see a thin figure pacing back and forth, with a glowing pipe bobbing in time with measured steps.

Harry swayed unsteadily, and the figure paused. Letting its pipe fall unheeded, the figure ran with loping strides, making its way up the hill towards him.

Harry dimly realized the figure was Sherlock Holmes. With a smile the boy took a shaky step, only to tip forward. As he watched the ground rush up, Harry found he just couldn't be bothered about the impending impact. He was still waiting for that impact when warm arms embraced him.

With blackness closing in from the corners of his eyes, Harry heard two words before losing consciousness.

"Well done."

-oOo-

That's strange, thought Harry, Baker Street doesn't have ceilings like that.

"Feeling alright?" asked a voice.

Turning his head, Harry saw Uncle Watson, doctor's bag and all, sitting in a chair. Behind him was Holmes, staring out a window filled with morning light.

"Uncle? Aren't you in London?"

Holmes turned. "Watson was anxious about last night's test, once I revealed its nature to him. He decided to supervise."

Watson grinned and pulled an enormously bulky pair of binoculars from his doctor's bag. "Night vision. A souvenir from Afghanistan."

"But tell us," said Holmes, "How things went on the moor."

The adults listened in rapt attention as Harry told them of waiting, of dark, desperation, and finally of golden light. By the end, Holmes was pacing up and down, practically bursting with excitement.

The detective whirled on Harry. "Can you do it now?" he asked, eyes glittering.

Watson watched Harry, and kept his face carefully blank, a sure sign he didn't approve of starting such interrogations so soon.

Harry glanced at each of them before nodding. "I'll try. Keep walking like that."

A few minutes of staring at the floor while Holmes paced revealed nothing. No golden light manifested itself around Holmes footprints, as Harry had wanted.

"Maybe," suggested Harry, "It's because you're already here. Maybe without something to solve, it can't find any clues?"

Holmes immediately went to the door and opened it, pausing to turn on his heel. "Find me," he said, and closed the door on his way out.

Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He could remember the snapping feeling from last night, but had no idea how to go about making it happen. After several fruitless minutes, frustration began to mount, and his mind began to wander.

Harry's thoughts drifted particularly to Sherlock's praise from the night before. The detective wasn't one for sloppy sentiments, and Harry wondered what it would take to once again wring such praise from him. So busy was he pondering this, that he almost failed to notice the room's sudden shift. Once again, it was an unmistakable, yet indescribable change; as if the whole room had very quickly and quietly nudged itself to the left.

Harry opened his eyes and barely refrained from whooping in delight. Golden light shone from the floor and doorknob.

He turned to Watson in excitement, and frowned as his uncle froze. "What is it?" he asked.

Watson fumbled in his bag, eyes never leaving the boy's face, and produced a mirror, holding it before his nephew's face.

Harry stared for a few seconds. "I'm going to say something now. Don't tell Sherlock."

Watson nodded.

Harry leaned closer to the mirror. "This is _so _cool."

Little circles of honey surrounded black pupils. His green irises had turned gold.

"Quite," said Watson, eyes bulging.

Harry hopped out of bed and went to the door, examining the floor's single glowing patch. Presumably, it would mark a footprint of some kind. But to Harry's disappointment, closer examination revealed nothing. As far as he could tell, the glow illuminated an ordinary patch of wooden floor.

"Something's wrong," he said, running a frustrated hand through rumpled hair.

Watson went over and peered at the spot Harry had examined. "What's wrong?"

"Its right here," said the boy, tapping the floor. "I can see it, just like the clues last night."

"And?"

"And I don't see any _clues_! Just the glow!"

Harry started to prowl about the room. Watson sat, watching and waiting as Harry wrestled with a new problem.

With a final look at the floor, Harry huffed in annoyance and went to the doorknob. There he met with the same problem. The glow was present, but the clue was not. Feeling his spirits beginning to sink, Harry turned the knob and stepped into the hallway.

Down the hallway to the right was another telltale glow, and yet again, it contained no discernible clue. Harry growled, looking around the glows's vicinity. This one was at an intersection of the second story hallway. To the left, stairs descended to the ground floor, while straight on lead to a veranda.

With a cringe, and knowing full well Holmes' opinion on guessing, Harry flipped a mental coin.

The veranda, then, he thought.

Luckily, it was still early, and his investigation only drew the bemused attention of a couple enjoying breakfast. Finding nothing, he beat a hasty retreat with dignity mostly intact. He had guessed wrong, and the fact that he'd guessed at all was a point he determined Sherlock Holmes never need know.

Harry clenched his hands nervously and began walking back towards the intersection. Holmes would probably deduce his appalling guesswork anyway, he thought. Sometimes it was as if the detective could see right into people's heads.

Steps retraced to the golden glow, Harry turned the corner, intent on continuing his clue quest downstairs.

The quest ended before it even began. Turning the corner, he ran straight into Sherlock Holmes. The man was waiting on the second step, just out of sight from the hallway.

"Well," said Holmes, ruffling Harry's hair, "Shall we see if Watson has managed without us?" The detective whistled a cheerful tune all the way back to his room. Harry followed with as noble a gait he could manage.

Watson was able to hold his reaction to mild alarm when the door violently slammed open. Holmes strode inside in high spirits, with Harry close behind.

"Well, well," said Holmes, rubbing his hands together, "I was starting to worry. After last night's impressive display, magic was starting to seem completely unfair." Holmes chuckled. "How nice to know my entire life's work hasn't been wasted."

"He didn't find you?" asked Watson.

Holmes gave another chuckle, and Harry spoke stiffly. "No, I didn't."

Holmes took a calming breath, demeanor morphing from giddy to serious. "Now, tell me what happened."

"I managed to get the golden lights again. Only..."

"Yes?"

"No clues. The glow was there, but the clues weren't."

"And how," asked Holmes, eyes twinkling, "Did you end up on the veranda?"

Harry kicked at the floor, lightly scuffing it. "There was a glow mark by the stairs, so-"

"So you guessed."

Harry cleared his throat, looking everywhere except at the detective.

Holmes gestured toward the door. "Show me exactly where these glows were."

Harry took a moment to be sure before, and pointed to the floor. "Here, and the doorknob."

Sherlock lie down on the floor with a magnifying glass suddenly in hand. He scrutinized the floorboards while Harry and Watson watched in silence.

"I thought," said Holmes, "You said there weren't any clues?"

Harry walked over, speaking with roughly double the confidence he felt. "There wasn't."

"Then what's this?" Holmes pointed through his magnifying glass.

Harry looked through and saw a scuff on the hard wooden floor. "Uh...a scuff mark?"

"That is the slight gouge, or scuff, I created in the floor's polish. Remember? Before I left the room, I turned on my heel before leaving. _That_ is a footprint."

Harry stared in fascination at the miniscule mark, and Holmes turned his magnifying glass towards the chrome doorknob. The detective breathed on the knob, then pulled his head back to examine the smooth metal surface.

"And here," said Holmes, face and magnifier nearly touching the knob, "We have, without a doubt, my very own fingerprint."

You have _got _to be kidding me, thought Harry.

But sure enough, with the aid of Holmes magnifier, he could clearly see the faint swirling pattern of an adult fingerprint. He decided not to question how Holmes knew the fingerprint was his own; the implied depths of obsession didn't do thinking about.

Holmes grabbed Harry, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. "Come along, Watson."

The trio moved down the hallway, stopping at the staircase Harry had earlier deliberated his 50/50 decision. Once again, Holmes dropped to floor, examining the area Harry pointed out.

As he searched, Holmes casually conversed. "This is where I threw you off. The maneuver lacked decorum, but one cannot deny the effectiveness of... ah, here we go. This little mark, right here, is where I jumped onto the banister and slid down to the ground floor. You see? No walking, no footprints."

Harry crossed his arms and scowled. "So you were untrackable, _this_ time. There won't always be banisters to slide down."

Harry regretted his words immediately. Even more so when Holmes turned a silent gaze on him.

"You are young," said Holmes, "And inexperienced, so I'll overlook that comment. Now look." He handed Harry the magnifying glass and pulled the boy to the floor. "First, note I'm wearing hard-soled shoes. When I point myself in the banister's direction and jump, pushing off leaves a _distinct_ mark in the floor's polish. You can clearly make out the curve of the shoe's toe; the apex of the convex edge is pointing directly at the banister."

Holmes rose with a scoff. "No one is untraceable; revealing marks are left on everything we touch. One only requires the wit to see them."

-oOo-

The ride back to Baker Street was a long one. Long enough, at least, for Watson to get in touch with his whimsical inner writer. Sometime after the train departed, the doctor turned away from the window. "What," he asked, "Do we call it?"

"Call what?" asked Harry.

"You know. The glow. The gold eyes. Everything."

"Does they need names?"

"Names are important," Watson insisted, "I was thinking...Midas Sight."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged, "I guess. What about the glow's themselves? Midas Marks?"

Watson scribbled a note into his writing pad, grinning like a child at Christmas. "Perfect. We'll make a writer out of you yet."

-oOo-

After Dartmoor, Harry's training redoubled. It began their first day back in London, and never stopped. Soon, days and nights began blurring together, melting into one long montage of inhuman training. Sometimes Harry would be woken in the middle of the night for grueling tests of deduction. "Fatigue Acclimation", Holmes called it. Harry preferred to call it a nightmare.

Watson, for once, didn't object. Harry suspected the whole ordeal filled the doctor with a certain with nostalgia for his military days.

Actual, formal lesson plans were few and far between. Sherlock preferred to jump from one subject to the other as whatever whim took hold. Lectures in anatomy would be interrupted for lunch, only to resume as an exercise in psychology. But however sporadic and fragmented the lesson may have been, none could fault their effectiveness.

By far, the most fascinating facet of Harry's training was magical. One by one he uncovered new skills in magic; skills Sherlock tested to the limit. Every week the detective had a new test, and each seemed custom-tailored to break Harry's spirit in new, mind-bending ways. The task designs were flawless, always keeping completion just out of reach, forcing Harry to boldly improvise. With each test he found himself twisting magic a little differently, pushing it a little further, and wielding it a little more skillfully.

Slowly, so slowly Harry himself did not even realize, the tests became shorter. The lectures came less frequently. In an effort to be more prepared, he began attempting to deduce the nature of upcoming lessons. As Harry learned to read the inscrutable detective-watching the face, the eyes, the twitch here, the blink there-Holmes had more and more difficulty misleading him with trick questions and false information.

-oOo-

The training continued to wane, until one day Harry came down for breakfast and no test waited for him. No lecture came forth and no lesson was given. Holmes just sat there, calming eating his toast and eggs.

Harry sat in silence with a cup of tea, wondering if he'd done anything wrong. Perhaps a slip-up on yesterdays test? Nothing came to mind.

"No test today?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and continued to eat.

"Are we doing _anything_ today?"

"Yes. Today I'd thought we'd do some work on the Heathrow Case. I've discovered a lead, and need to investigate a certain pawn shop near Charing Cross."

"That's it?"

"That's it? My boy, who knows what could happen! We might walk into that pawn shop and be instantly assaulted! Rendered unconscious! Do you know what could happen then?"

Harry noted Sherlock was in one of his _moods_, and the detective barreled on. "No, no, I'll tell you. If a criminal of sufficient ingenuity is present, we might then be dunked in vats of liquid nitrogen and fed into a wood chipper! So yes, _that is it_."

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to continue, and went back to calmly consuming breakfast. Emotions took him like a storm at sea, suddenly here and suddenly gone.

Harry counted to sixty before speaking. "Then when's the next one?"

"Next what?"

"Test."

"Sometime next week, maybe. Or maybe never. Who knows?"

Harry stared in appalled shock, and Holmes decided to clarify.

"Let me put it this way. From now on, your tests will be working cases with me."

Harry frowned. "Why? Why change?"

"It took some time, but you've finally built up a solid foundation, at least in the art of observation. The most important thing you need now is practical experience. So from now on, I want you to think of our cases a little differently."

"Different how?"

Holmes grinned. "How else? As competitions."

A/N:

Holmes' trick with the doorknob really works. Grab yourself some chrome, roll a fingerprint on, and breathe on it. Condensation gathers on the surrounding metal, but the oil from your finger protects the print.


	4. Ch 4, Rolling

_ I remember it clear as yesterday. Harry and Holmes were discussing a case, picking apart a client's motivations and insecurities over breakfast. The meal itself was a simple affair, consisting of scone and eggs. When an old friend saw fit to visit, such simplicity was soon put to rest._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

Harry waited by the door, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet. Adults, he thought, did well enough once an adventure got started, but were absolutely no good at getting them rolling.

For the past thirty minutes, Watson had been interrogating Professor McGonagall about the minutest aspects of Harry's schooling. How was transport arranged? What were meals like? Did they put emphasis on proper nutrition?

Holmes, detached as ever, sat near the window, smoking a clay pipe. The detective observed Watson with concealed amusement, clearly evident from his bottom lip pulling three millimeters to the left.

Harry decided the starting of his newest adventure would take a proactive approach. "Uncle, aren't you running late? Don't you have to see your patient in the country?"

The doctor paused his barrage of inquiries long enough to glance at the clock. "Great Scott! I'm late! Holmes, Harry, Minerva."

Watson pumped McGonagall's hand once and rushed to the door. He swept up his cane and hat from a small table, and paused only long enough to remind Harry to write before leaving. The remaining occupants heard him clatter down the stairs, followed by the distant sound of the front door slamming.

In the silence, Holmes chuckled quietly. "Excellent, Harry. Now explain."

Harry beamed, and McGonagall looked at them both, puzzled.

"Easy," Harry replied, "He always uses his heavy black cane when he goes out to the country, and he put his hat on the table instead of the hat rack, so he was planning on leaving soon. He lost track of time when the Professor showed up."

"And?" said Holmes.

"_And_ his doctor's bag was open when I woke up this morning, so he either checked it this morning or last night. He only checks his bag when he has a patient to see."

"_And_?"

Harry narrowed his eyes at the detective. "And that's it."

Holmes took the time to stretch luxuriously before standing. "Wrong."

It was a single word, but to Professor McGonagall, it seemed like Harry had been physically struck.

"Or perhaps," continued Holmes, "I should say, _not enough_. Your observations are quite refined, but you leap too far in your deductions. The only real evidence you possess of Watson's country patient was the cane. The other observations lend strength to your hypothesis, but _only_ if your deduction with the cane is correct." Sherlock shrugged, refilling his pipe with tobacco. "Watson could have just as easily mislaid his other cane, and employed the black one as a substitute."

Harry was wilting before McGonagall's eyes, and the conversation was leaving her completely bewildered.

"Yes," said Holmes, "Watson _is_ going to the country today. I know this because of a crucial piece piece of evidence; one you've failed to ascertain."

Holmes paused dramatically, and sat in a chair by the mantelpiece. "His shoes. Crusted around the soles of the footwear he wore yesterday, I perceived a fine, red dust. Brick dust, to be precise. The same kind of brick dust one would find in ample supply at a demolition site. A demolition site which can be currently located right next doorto our local train ticket office. Watson, being the prudent man he is, naturally prefers to purchase his train tickets well in advance."

Holmes raised a single finger to his head. "And thus, a string of mere coincidences becomes something more; an irrefutable series of observations that lead us to the logical conclusion."

Holmes crossed his fingers and stared into the fireplace. "Remember Harry, guessing is the greatest enemy to reason. It is utterly destructive to the logical faculty."

Harry was standing stiffly, ram-rod straight. He nodded. "I understand."

"I know. Good day, Professor McGonagall."

The professor blinked. Surely, she thought, that's not all? He's not just going to-

But Harry was already tapping her arm. "Can we go now?" he asked.

She spared a single glance to Holmes before nodding. "Of course, Mr. Potter. We've a long day ahead."

The pair had just stepped into the hallway when Holmes called out.

"Harry?"

Harry and McGonagall turned, the latter struck with what she saw. The professor thought Holmes was an awfully lonely looking man, sitting alone in his darkened sitting room.

Holmes shifted, an strange, uncomfortable gesture, Harry noted. "In the art of detection," said Holmes, "It's of the highest importance to be able to recognize, out of any number of facts, those which are incidental and those which are vital. If one cannot recognize these crucial points, one's attention and energy spreads hopelessly thin."

Harry and McGonagall waited, but Holmes turned away and lapsed into silence.

-oOo-

Walking down the stairs with The Boy Who Lived, Professor McGonagall felt a pressure lift from her chest. Sherlock Holmes. A great man, surely, and yet...

She looked down at the young boy beside her, and thought of the cold man left behind, sitting alone before a dying fire. The way he had tested Harry had clearly been a stressful ordeal for the boy. Not for the first time, she questioned the wisdom in placing Harry with such a man.

"You don't trust him, do you?"

Mcgonagall looked down. Harry was looking at her with an open, unguarded expression. The face of a child, she thought. And yet, something seemed off. She had the fleeting impression of very old eyes, somehow stuck into a little boy's face.

"He's a brilliant man." she answered.

"But you don't like him."

"Mr. Potter-"

"It's alright. I didn't like him very much either, in the beginning."

"...And now?"

"Now he's my dad."

McGonagall felt something twist inside her chest. She had personally known James and Lilly Potter. Harry never even knew his parents, and now all he had was that, that machine of a man. Thank goodness for Doctor Watson. He seemed a smart, practical person, but alas, he appeared to spend more time at work than home.

"He taught me how to think," said Harry.

McGonagall turned away from her thoughts, and looked again to Harry. "I see. Is that what that game was about, before we left?"

An expression flashed across Harry's face, too fast for her to read. "It's not a game. Observation is the cornerstone of detection."

"Is that what he's been teaching you? To be a detective?" McGonagall frowned. She didn't think much of detectives in general. The investigative Auror teams during the war had been useless. Perhaps even worse than useless. Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't an _official _detective. He certainly wasn't connected with the police. If anything, they seemed to look down on him.

"Will I have to use a wand all the time, too?" Harry asked.

McGonagall's thoughts scattered. "What was that?"

"A wand. Will I have to use one all the time, like you, or is that an optional thing?"

"Wands are conductors of magic. Everyone has one."

Harry continued walking, and carefully posed his next question. "So wizards _need_ wands to use magic?"

"Almost always. Some forms of wandless magic can be used for simple tasks, but it tends to be rather imprecise."

"Oh."

McGonagall smiled to herself. Such curiosity. Harry would fit right in at...

She paused, frowned, and turned to Harry. "And who told you about wands?"

"Well, it _is_ holstered right there, professor," said Harry, pointing to her leather wand holder.

McGonagall's hand brushed the holster in reflex. "I'm aware. But how did you know wizards, and I quote, 'use them all the time'?"

Harry craned his neck, still observing her wand holster, taking the intricate designs empbossed in the leather. "Everyone seems to think being small is such a bad thing. No one thinks it's good for much, but you'd be surprised. Take right now. It lets me have a good look at your hands. You'd be surprised what a person's hands can say about them."

McGonagall looked rather dubious, and Harry continued.

"One time, my dad worked a case where the client was a professional writer. This guy hated typewriters. He only worked with pencil and paper. That guy had very distinct callous and indentions on his palm and fingers. Almost just like yours."

McGonagall frowned and examined her hands. They looked the same as they always did. Harry happily rambled on. "Your hands tell the story of heavy use, not from a pencil, but something thicker and rougher. Your wand is a perfect match, and the logical candidate."

McGonagall looked at her wand hand again, peering closer. There, on the tip of her index finger, was the slightest of indentations. Pulling out her wand, she assumed her natural grip, almost an instinctual action after decades of use. The thin piece of wood snuggled into her hand, resting neatly on the tip of her index finger.

She glanced down, and Harry grinned up at her.

"Do you still think it's a game, Professor?"


	5. Ch 5, Gringotts

_The boy came to Holmes expecting a fellow voice of reason in what must have seemed a world gone mad. To his utter surprise, Sherlock took not Harry's side, but that of the wizards. It seems my old friend's keen perception of human nature held true even through veils of magic._

"_Do you wonder," asked Holmes, "How a refrigerator works? Oh, you have a general idea. Coils and coolant and electricity. But beyond that, nothing. It keeps things cold, and thats all you need to know, really. Why should you exert yourself over trivialities when more important matters press? To wizards, magic is the same." _

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

It was the right choice, thought McGonagall, not to take Harry through the Leaky Cauldron. The pub was too crowded, with too many people who noticed the details. Details like young Harry's scar, just barely visible through messy bangs. Better to avoid the attention, and apparate directly to their destination.

They arrived in a small, sunlit alleyway with a small pop of displaced air. Harry stumbled slightly before gaining his balance, and looked about with bright eyes. "So," he said, "You can go anywhere like that?"

"Nearly, unless the location is warded against apparation."

Harry peered around, squinting in the sunlight. "Where are we?"

"We're at one of the few _physical_ doorways to magical Britain."

Harry nodded, and completely ignored the nearby pub door, focusing instead on the brick wall at the alley's end. "Okay. How do we get through?"

McGonagall raised a single eyebrow. The boy was at it again. "I don't suppose you'll explain how you know the way?"

Harry pushed at the brickwork, scrutinizing the mortar. "Footprints."

"Beg pardon?"

"The footprints. They all go this way."

McGonagall glanced at Harry, who stared wistfully up at the wall, looking ready to try for a handhold in the brickwork. She turned a skeptical gaze to the ground; hard-packed dirt with occasional patches of grass. Certainly not the plethora of footprints he claimed.

Frowning, she joined him at the wall, and extended her arm, wand in hand. A few sharp taps on several bricks, and the wall began to part in the middle, bricks obligingly folding themselves out of the way.

McGonagall suppressed a smile as Harry's jaw dropped. "Welcome, Harry, to Diagon Alley."

-oOo-

Harry moved through the crowded street, and seemed to have lost his finer motor functions. He slowly shuffled along, head constantly twisted about at alarming angles and velocities. Every so often, it would jerk to a stop before stuttering back to full speed, as if he had tried to look two ways at once.

McGonagall took the boy's hand, coaxing him into a faster pace. "Come along, Mr. Potter. I'd prefer to reach the bank today, if possible."

Harry snapped out his reverie. "Bank?"

"Of course. Your parents left you a substantial amount, if I'm not mistaken."

Harry tried, but couldn't think of an appropriate response. What was one supposed to say, exactly? No one to thank, and he couldn't even remember his parent's faces. In the end, he decided to merely nod.

-oOo-

The bank, Gringott's, was an experience to match the situation. More fortress than bank, the great structure was all marble and pillars and granite. Goblins weren't anything to trifle with either, if claws and teeth were anything to go by. In a fit of fancy, Harry predicted security would be suitably over the top.

He was not disappointed.

Hunkered into a mine cart with the professor and Twistclaw, a goblin attendant, Harry hurtled through pitch black mineshafts at breakneck speeds. He was sure he caught glimpse of a dragon at one point; a flash of red fire in the dark, harshly lighting a huge, scaly form draped in shackles. After that sighting, he was very careful to keep his hands inside the cart at all times.

After a minute the ride came to a bone-jarring stop. Harry listened in the darkness to quiet drips of water and the sound of other mine carts clattering in the distance.

"Left, right, right, left, right," Harry thought. "Then that curvy bit and a two more lefts-"

His train of thought was broken by a single, echoing snap. A lone torch flared into life, revealing a windswept McGonagall and dour Twistclaw. The goblin had a hand raised and fingers poised. A second snap and the cart door opened.

Harry hopped out, followed closely by his companions. They stood on a wide ledge carved from the sheer cavern sides. Harry walked to edge, peered over, and fought the resulting vertigo. Slick walls dropped down into infinite chasms, with lonely mine tracks fading away in either direction. Even if you knew the way, navigating Gringott's caverns appeared nigh impossible without an official cart.

Turning away from the edge, he examined his vault door. It was a massive thing, set into rough-hewn stone and made from iron slabs bound by rivets the size of apples. A small plaque set into the floor, like a macabre doormat, read ominously: "Thief, turn ye back. A pale horse waits."

Twistclaw approached the door and ran a single claw across the surface. Harry watched closely as the Goblin moved his hand in ever more complex patterns across the door until, with a final elaborate gesture, a slightly winded Twistclaw stepped aside.

McGonagall tapped his shoulder. "After you, Mr. Potter."

-oOo-

A substantial amount. That's what McGonagall had said. Standing in the vault entrance, Harry could only stare dumbfounded at the sight before him.

Substantial indeed, he thought.

Glittering in the bright torchlight, piles of bronze, silver, and gold coins reached for the cavernous ceiling. A bureau stood against the far wall, with a wooden chest tucked beside.

Harry coughed, a slightly strangled sound, and waved a hand toward the mountain of coins. "All of this belongs to _me_?"

Twistclaw appeared at his shoulder, all business. "This is the entirety of your family holdings, Mr. Potter, including material possessions. Though, please note, all monetary withdrawals will be restricted until your coming of age."

"Restricted?"

"All withdrawals will be at the discretion of a legal guardian or approved representative. Today, that capacity is being filled by one Minerva McGonagall." The goblin motioned towards the professor.

As Harry listened to Twistclaw enumerate the finer points of vault legalese, he made his way across the room, carefully stepping around piles of coins. The money came as a surprise, certainly, but in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the image of Sherlock Holmes looking decidedly bored. To the great detective, money matters were a tolerated evil. Necessary perhaps, but wholly uninteresting.

Reaching the bureau, Harry began opening many small drawers. "Do material possessions have any withdrawal restrictions?"

"No." said Twistclaw.

McGonagall carefully made her way to his side, and watched him examine the bureau contents. All of it was quite ordinary, albeit of higher quality than usual. Quills, blank parchment, and minor magical knickknack filled the drawers. She assumed most of the objects had more sentimental value than anything. One thing, though, did catch her eye.

Harry paused in his rummaging to watch McGonagall examine a small pouch he had already passed up. She passed her wand over the bag in a circular pattern before nodding, and proffered it to him.

"You'll want this."

Harry accepted the plain leather bag and eyed it with newfound curiosity. "I'm guessing there's more to it than meets the eye?"

McGonagall smiled. "Look inside."

Harry loosened the bag's drawstring and peered inside. It took his brain a moment to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. As far as he could tell, the pouch contained a night sky, complete with minute stars shining in the far distance.

He closed the drawstrings tight, and held the bag close.

"It's a mokeskin," said McGonagall.

"What does it do?"

"Holds things, of course. In this case, an awful lot of things."

"How much?"

McGonagall bent down, and picked a bronze coin off the floor. "More than all your school supplies, I suspect. If you open it, I'll demonstrate."

Harry again loosened the drawstring and McGonagall dropped the coin in, letting it fall into the bag's night sky. Harry watched as the coin fall, fall, fall, until it disappeared into the distance.

"The coin," said McGonagall, "Is called a knut. To retrieve it, you just reach in and say, 'one knut'."

Harry did so, and felt something cool and metallic brush his fingertips. He grasped, pulled out his hand, and stared in wonder at the bronze coin resting on his palm.

"Where does it go?" he whispered.

McGonagall fixed him with an odd look. "I...never really thought about it." She pursed her lips and began tapping her foot, finally shaking her head. "It's magic, Mr. Potter. And rather minor magic, at that. If it was imperative, the original spell crafter would know. Why do you ask?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. She never thought about it? The words of Sherlock Holmes sprang to mind unbidden.

_"To a great mind, nothing is little."_

"Just idle curiosity," he answered.

Abandoned the pillaged bureau, he moved to final unexplored object, a large wooden chest. The container was polished to a dull luster, with drawers oddly set into every side. He tapped the chest thoughtfully, noting the finely crafted claw-like feet. "What about this? More than meets the eye again?"

The professor waved her wand over the chest in the same circular pattern she used with the pouch. Her eyes widened. "My my, I daresay you'll be taking this too."

Harry rubbed his hands together. "Why's that?"

McGonagall bent down and grasped the largest drawer handle. Pulling it out revealed not a shallow drawer, as Harry expected, but a set of stairs.

The stairs lead downward, seemingly into the cavern floor.

Harry looked at the professor, who nodded. Mounting the steps determinedly, he began walking down with McGonagall close behind. His eardrums tightened a few meters down, as if he was quickly traversing a massive change in elevation.

Stepping off the final step, Harry looked around. "You know," he said, "I didn't really see this coming."

The stairs led to a room. A rather nice room with rather nice furnishings, it must be said. Empty bookcases lined the walls and a cozy fire burned beneath a handsome mantle. Dark wood paneling gleamed in the warm light, and luxurious furniture dotted the room.

Harry had not fainted in a very long time, but decided it might be a good idea to sit down. Sinking slowly into a plush armchair, he gestured vaguely at the posh surroundings. "Is this…normal?"

McGonagall ran a finger across the mantle's top. It came off perfectly clean. "It's not uncommon for things to hold more than they should. That said, this is the work of a master spell crafter."

Harry decided to skip the obvious "where are we" question. He strongly suspected, like the mokeskin, that people simply didn't wonder about those things. Still, what he was seeing broke about a dozen laws of nature. What would that make the original spell crafter, a god? Harry shook his head. Too many questions and not a single answer.

McGonagall walked to the staircase and began climbing. "Come along, our day is just begun."

Walking behind her, Harry found himself hoping the remaining day would be a little less mind-bending. Emerging from the chest, he watched the stairs drawer snap shut behind him.

"One more point of interest, concerning your chest." said McGonagall.

"More?" asked Harry, bracing himself.

"It's considerably less impressive than a hidden sitting room. Just step this way."

Harry crossed the few feet to her side. "Now," she said, "Say 'here' in a firm, clear voice."

"Here."

Maybe, he thought, I'm burnt out. Too many new ideas at once, that's what it is. Whatever the reason, he didn't even blink as the chest, on it's sturdy claw-like feet, trundled towards him. Reaching his side, it settled to the ground with an unmistakable purr.

McGonagall smiled. "Still in perfect order. Incredible charms work. It responds to your family's magical signature. It should follow basic commands and seems to already be spelled with some minor charms; Bunny-Be-Gone, for one."

"Bunny-Be-Gone?"

McGonagall nodded with approval. "For dust."

-oOo-

Harry walked out of Gringott's Bank considerably wealthier than when he walked in. His new chest crawled behind him, weaving through the crowd with surprising nimbleness. The mokeskin hung around his neck, under his shirt, and it made him mildly uneasy to be walking around with so many galleons.

McGonagall led him through the crowded streets of Diagon Alley with ease, taking her time and pointing out various shops and points of interest. A bookshop there, a broom emporium here, and I don't want to _ever _see you in one of _those _shops, Mr. Potter.

They made their meandering way to a small, unassuming shop. The building's black paint was cracked and peeled. Instead of an inviting display window, it had closed curtains.

"You'll be awhile in there," said McGonagall, "If you don't mind, I'll purchase the rest of your supplies while you take your time."

"Doing what?"

McGonagall patted her wand holster affectionately. "Choosing a wand."

She prodded him towards the shop entrance, then turned with a swirl of robes, disappearing into the crowd.

Harry approached the shop entrance, took a nervous breath, and turned the doorknob.


	6. Ch 6, Old Tales & New Friends

_Their meeting was one I'll never forget. Holmes was enjoying dinner when she swooped through the window, a silent ghost on the wind. Had I not been facing the correct direction, I never would have seen her enter. When she landed on the table, directly onto a platter of kippers, Holmes' reaction was instantaneous. He attacked._

_It is not that my friends dislikes owls (or any animal outright), but sudden intrusion into his closely guarded personal space begets reflexive action._

_I watched, confusion turning to amusement, as man and owl danced about the flat. They carefully stayed out of the others reach, and sniped blows from a distance, always falling just short. When the encounter lulled, Holmes had a moment to realize just what he was doing, namely, destroying our flat through hand-to-claw combat with an avian._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

The first impression was one of dust. Thick motes of it drifted in the dead air, settling over the shop like a velvet blanket. Harry stepped quietly, with an instinctive need for silence; the same instinct one feels when walking through a library, or perhaps a tomb.

A low countertop divided the shop in two, devoid of anything save a small service bell and tray of business cards. Behind the counter was a single aisle, shelves lined with narrow boxes. Looking between those two shelves, Harry felt goose bumps break out over his arms. Of course, he thought.

The aisle stretched endlessly, and faded into darkness.

The mokeskin and chest displayed similar properties of spatial distortion, but Ollivander's wand aisle was on an entirely different scale.

Harry shakily leaned against the countertop and helped himself to a business card. The card was black, with elegant gold script that read, "Ollivander's: Maker of Fine Wands". Either Ollivander's didn't know the first thing about advertising, or were so good they didn't care about it. Glancing at the endless aisle of wands, Harry strongly suspected the latter.

Clearing his throat, he called out softly. "Excuse me?"

Harry waited a moment, and then shrugged. He glanced around a final time before ringing the service bell. Nothing happened, and Harry was about to ring again we he noticed…hair growing from the bell. He looked closer. No, not hair. Antennae? He watched as a large, red beetle crawled out from under the bell. The bug climbed to the instruments summit and shook itself briskly, as if trying to wake up from a nap. Harry could have sworn the beetle gave him a glare before flying off down the aisle, fading into the distance with astonishing speed.

Harry waited, mostly wondering how beetles could glare. He was about to give the bell another try when he heard something. It was a very quiet sort of hissing, and it was getting louder by the second.

If he squinted, he could just make out a tiny speck at the aisles far end, though the speck was getting larger by the moment. As it drew closer, Harry saw it was actually a rolling ladder, and clinging to it was an old man. Closer, and he could see the man's white hair sticking out and waving wildly in the wind. Even closer, and he could see eyes like bowls of milk. Until at last, coming to a jolting stop before the counter, the old man hopped off the ladder and gave Harry a creepy smile. He crept up to the countertop, giving the impression of a wading bird stalking prey in the shallows.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Potter."

Harry frowned. "Mr. Ollivander, I presume?"

"Correct." Ollivander leaned closer, staring at Harry with unblinking eyes. "Remarkable. You look just like them, you know. Your father's hair, with your mother's eyes. Uncanny."

Harry leaned back, keeping just out of reach, should the man make a grab. "You knew my parents?"

"I sold them wands, and I remember every wand I've ever sold."

The two stared for a moment, each weighing the other. Ollivander seemed to drink in the quiet, not bothered in the least. Harry too was no stranger to awkward silence, an inevitable side-effect of being raised by Sherlock Holmes. It continued until Harry noticed the small red beetle perched on Ollivander's shoulder; it seemed to be staring at him as well.

"So," said Harry, "How does this work? Do I just pick one I like?"

Ollivander seemed amused by this remark. "It's rather the other way around, actually. The wand chooses the wizard."

Harry didn't want to think about how a stick of wood could _choose_ someone. He was quickly learning, with regards to magic, you had to accept and press on.

"Usually," said Ollivander, "The pairing of wand and wizard is quite an ordeal. But for you, I already have something in mind."

From his robes, Ollivander withdrew a long, thin box. From within he pulled a thin piece of wood. "I've had it in mind forever, actually. Been keeping it safe, just in case."

Reaching out for the wand, Harry felt an electric tingle in his fingers. He braced himself. Braced for what, he couldn't say, but guessed it wouldn't be pleasant.

He guessed wrong.

In retrospect, he would decide it was somewhat like activating his Midas Sight, only a thousand time more intense. Foremost among the resulting maelstrom of sensation, grabbing the wand was accompanied by a shock, and not a small one. It felt like bolt of lightning coursed from his stomach up to his eyes, then arced through his limbs before forcing his mouth open in a silent scream.

Then, swift as they began, the feelings stopped.

Harry swayed, aware of a loud ringing in his ears, and realized he was seeing double. After the dizzy spell passed, and he had shaken the sound out of his ears, Harry noticed Ollivander acting rather odd.

The old man was giggling like a schoolgirl, with a hand clapped tight over his mouth. The red beetle flew around the shop keeper's head in loopy circles. Harry edged away, suddenly and keenly aware of Professor McGonagall's absence.

Seeming to sense Harry's unease, the hysteric man's laughter cut off abruptly. Ollivander stood perfectly composed, a transformation so sudden and complete that Harry found himself doubting the man's lapse of composure had ever happened.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, you'll have to excuse me," he said, "I have an unusually keen sense of irony. It's a terrible thing."

Harry watched the man carefully. "That's...That is, I'd love to hear about it."

"No, you wouldn't, but it's nice of you to say. I'll give you the gist. It just so happens that the phoenix who's feather resides in your wand gave another feather. Just _one_ other. It is ironic that you should be destined for this wand, when it's brother gave you that scar."

Harry reached up and traced the scar on his forehead. It was still well hidden behind his bangs. "And who owned that wand?"

"We do not speak his name. He did great things, you know. Terrible, oh yes, but _great_."

Harry frowned. "_Did _great things. As in past tense? As in he's dead?"

Ollivander nodded.

"Then why don't you say his name?" asked Harry.

"We can_,_ but we do not." Ollivander glanced around his dark, quiet shop and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Great men attract followers. Followers that live on and listen for the name of _Voldemort._"

"Vold-".

"Shhh!" Ollivander glared and placed a single finger over his lips.

Harry sighed. "I think you'd better start at the beginning."

-oOo-

Time passed slowly as the two quietly conversed. Harry's mind swirled as the wand maker spun a dark tale of painful times.

The tale had many facets. Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse. Sirius Black, the betrayer. Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's terrible servants. The tale's end hit Harry like a bat to the head. It ended with Magical Britain's savior, the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter.

All these facts and more crowded in his mind, vying for attention. Information overload threatened until he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and fell back on his training. Slowly the clamor of thoughts quelled, as Harry put them all aside for later analysis. He was very careful not to pursue any train of thought based on the new information. It was, after all, unverified. That was one of the first things Holmes had taught him. The great detective's words echoed in his mind even now:

_"It's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."_

"It doesn't seem very clear," said Harry. "I was only one year old when this happened, right? And there were no survivors. How does anyone _know_ anything?"

Ollivander climbed back onto his ladder. "No one _knows _anything, because nothing _is_ clear, except for one thing." Turning his milky eyes on the boy below, Ollivander smiled. "I think it's clear we can expect great things from you, too."

With a soft hiss, the ladder started rolling down the aisle. It quickly picked up speed, and the old wand maker was soon swallowed by the lack of light. Harry took a seat, thoughtfully twirling his wand, waiting in the dust and dark.

Enough time passed for him to start feeling the first twitches of restlessness when the door opened, creaking on rusty hinges. Professor McGonagall entered the shop, pulling a cart stacked with books, a small cauldron, and all the detritus of academia. A brilliant snowy owl, perching in a delicate cage, sat on top. She closed the door softly and looked around, gaze settling on Harry.

"Well?" she asked.

Harry held up his new wand, and McGonagall nodded, pulling out a tangle of leather from her robes and handing it to Harry. "For your wand," she said, "It's a dueling harness for your forearm; all the kids use them. The...holster style went out of fashion some time ago, apparently." She gave a sniff of disapproval, and Harry refrained from looking at her wand holster.

McGonagall watched him fumble with the harness for a moment before stepping forward. "Here," she said. A few deft turns, tugs, and clasps saw the harness strapped firmly to his arm. Slotting his wand in, Harry was surprised to feel something tugging it into place.

"It's charmed," said McGonagall, seeing his expression, "To hold wands in place with a Jelly Grip charm."

Harry pulled at his wand, and found it remained seated, resisting a fair amount of pulling before coming loose.

McGonagall set the owl cage on the countertop, and gestured towards the pile of school supplies. "Here's all your first year books and supplies. They should fit in your mokeskin without a problem."

Harry approached the pile and removed the mokeskin pouch from around his neck. He regarded the small bag skeptically, grabbed a pack of writing quills, and pushed them against the mokeskin's mouth. The container's lip stretched like a rubber band, expanding more than he'd thought possible, and accepted the quill pack with a quiet glorp.

As he fed the pouch the rest of his supplies, he found the only tight fit to be a small pewter cauldron.

Finished packing, he pulled the drawstring tight, replaced the bag around his neck, and was pleased to find it still weighed next to nothing.

McGonagall laid a hand on the owl cage. "This is Hedwig. She's a mail owl"

"Mail owl?"

"Every family has one. They can carry letters and packages almost everywhere, and find almost anyone."

"But how do they know where to go?"

McGonagall blinked, opened her mouth, and then closed it. Harry sighed. "Never mind," he said. "Magic, right?"

McGonagall tapped her wand thoughtfully. "We could pick up a book on it, if you'd like."

"That'd be great," he said, approaching the owl cage. Hedwig watched him with fierce, golden eyes.

"I thought," said McGonagall, "She could be a sort of congratulations, as it were. If you like her, I mean. Getting your wand is a big step, after all. Not to mention you going to Hogwarts…"

Harry regarded McGonagall from the corner of his eye. She was frowning, stiff, and watching him with ill-concealed nervousness. Harry wondered how unused she was to this sort of thing, this manner of direct, overt kindness. "Thank you," he said, happily noting the small, faintly relieved smile that bloomed in the professor's face.

Harry undid the cage latch and stepped back. "Hello, Hedwig."

Hedwig regarded him keenly before stepping onto the countertop, and swiveled her around to glance at the professor.

Harry slowly extended his hand towards the bird, not quite touching her. The owl leaned forward, brushed against his hand, and then pulled back with a hoot. Harry turned to McGonagall, about to explain how he was never good with animals, when Hedwig hopped forward. With a brief flurry of white wings, she settled onto Harry's shoulder, and surveyed her surroundings from the new perch.

Harry grinned. "I guess she likes me."

McGonagall's eyes widened. "So it seems."

The owl had been more expensive than the McGonagall would ever admit, with a pedigree to match, but it's behavior still shocked her. Owls were not really regarded as pets in the wizarding world, mostly seen a mere couriers. They always performed their duties admirably, but were quite solitary creatures, and trusted slowly, if at all. She had expected Hedwig to limit contact with the brush against his hand, or more realistically, a gentle nip on the finger. But to ride the shoulder of a perfect stranger?

"Do I really need the cage, Professor?"

McGonagall came very close to automatically saying "yes". Holding back her snap reaction, she regarded the pair, already so natural together.

Why not? After all, she knew a fourth year who kept a hamster in his pocket, so why not an owl on the shoulder?

"I suppose," she said, "You could do without the cage, as long as no incidents occur. Some of the student's smaller pets may be particularly at risk." She tapped her foot a few times, a frown starting to creep onto her face. "In fact, now that I think about it, I don't-"

"Hedwig wouldn't do something like that, would you girl?" The owl hooted in reply, and swiveled it's head to fix the professor with a particularly intimidating gaze.

McGonagall sighed. "I'll probably regret this, but alright. Mind you, on a trial basis."

Harry beamed. "Excellent."


	7. Ch 7, First Impressions

_ On the contrary, most of his anxiety centered on social interaction, particularly with children. I'm ashamed to look back and not remember a single instance of his speaking with another child. Harry had always been surrounded by adults. Sherlock, clients, constables, and criminals; these were his social influences. Harry rightfully surmised his lack of development in this area, and sought to correct it. But when asked how to act around peers his own age, I found myself at a loss._

_Surprising all present, Sherlock came forward with a simple solution. "Whenever uncertain about how to treat an individual, I opt to treat them as if they were a client."_

_Harry's relief at having guidelines was not reflected in myself. I was well aware of how Holmes handled his clients. Respectful, but distant. Helpful but unattached. An attitude designed for business, not friendship._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

For the first time since his introduction to the wizarding world, Harry had time to think. Professor McGonagall lead him through London streets, marching briskly through throngs of humanity. According to her, they were en route to King's Cross train station, where he would board the Hogwarts Express. Harry took advantage of the lull, and played back his visit to Diagon Alley- retrospective contemplation was something Sherlock encouraged.

As Harry recalled the day so far, and cringed. The sights, the sounds, the _implications_ of everything had dazzled him. So far, with one day not even over, he had experienced a broader range of emotion than one felt in a week at Baker Street.

Slightly overwhelming, but not an entirely unexpected result. Sherlock Holmes did not approve of emotion, after all. They were admirable things for the observer- excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was a dangerous endeavor. Introducing such factors might throw doubt upon all of one's mental results. To the great detective, the least harmful of all emotions were humor and sarcasm, but even these he sparingly employed.

This view reflected Holmes' broad dismissal of the peripherals of everyday life, from emotion to technology. To him, they were truly unnecessary, for at his smoldering core was one thing: a passion for the study of criminal nature. All else was secondary.

In a modern world, Holmes did very little to keep up with progress. He did not shun advancement, but remained cautious. Technology allowed great convenience, and encouraged great dependence. To be dependent on anything but himself filled the detective with abhorrence.

Harry often heard his father wax poetic on the subject, but the core tenet was simple: "Science," maintained Holmes, "Will never stop moving forward, but the minds and motives of men will always remain the same."

After today, Harry saw significant parallels between technology and magic. Both were powerful, and if the spells so far had been any indication, both had great potential for addiction.

-oOo-

Walking up the steps to King's Cross station, McGonagall focused on the teeming mass of muggles surrounding her. She did not notice the veil that seemed to drop over Harry's eyes, or how he swept a single, calculating gaze over the crowd. If she had, she would have seen, for a brief moment, the exact expression of Sherlock Holmes working a case.

Once inside, McGonagall pulled out a small pocket watch and frowned at it. "I'm running a bit late. Can you board the train without me?"

Harry nodded. "I think I can handle it."

McGonagall handed him a train ticket. "I'm sure you can. Safe trip, Mr. Potter."

"And you."

McGonagall nodded sharply, turned on her heel, and marched off. The crowd parted like minnows before a shark.

Harry stood alone, and did not miss the stares drawn by Hedwig. The owl was perched on his shoulder, and had gotten even more attention on the way to the station. A few individuals even asked to pet her, cooing all the while. Hedwig, for her part, held herself like a queen, not minding the attention in the slightest.

Harry examined his ticket, then again with narrowed eyes. The boarding platform was listed as number nine and three-quarters. With a familiar rush of adrenaline, he began making his way towards the boarding area, and gave Hedwig an affectionate pat.

"The games afoot, girl."

-oOo-

Harry looked to the left. There was platform nine. He glanced right, and glared at the sign emblazoned with a large "10".

Harry sat on a bench between the two platforms, annoyed. Was this some kind of test, he wondered? Some sort of proof of magic? Such methods didn't seem McGonagall's style, though. She had acted as though boarding would be a simple affair, like it was obvious.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, leaned forward, and examined his surroundings once more. He slowly scanned the area, and a glint caught his eye. A yard away, next to a support beam, sat a penny.

"A penny saved..." he thought, getting up.

Harry walked to the coin, bent down, and stared in shock. He reached down and pinched the coin between his fingers, amazed at what he held.

It was one of those wizard coins. A knut, he recalled.

Harry straightened, using the motion to inconspicuously search the area. It was then he became aware of yet another oddity.

It was the people. Hedwig had gotten looks all day, even as he had sat just a moment ago. Now, not a single person paid her the smallest bit of attention. The endless stream of passerby's seemed curiously inattentive to the little boy with an owl on his shoulder.

An older gentleman passing by locked eyes with him for a moment, and Harry waved. The man walked on without reaction; his empty gaze slid over Harry as if the boy did not exist.

Just like my trunk, Harry thought. He glanced down at the ever-present container, and considered the charms woven into it's wood. Muggle-repellents, McGonagall had called them. It appeared something similar was at work.

Deciding embarrassment was a small price to pay for experimentation, Harry decided to test, through carefully calibrated experimentation, his newly formed hypothesis.

He screamed.

He made the kind of noise usually reserved for dying water buffalo, and no one paid him any mind. No one even blinked.

Definitely magic, Harry thought. The only question was when it had taken effect. He gave the knut in his hand a suspicious look, and tossed it away. He waited for a commuter to pass close by, a suited businessman, and tugged hard at the person's coat.

"Excuse me, mister..."

The man slowed his stride and glanced down. Harry watched as the man's eyes focused upon him, and then glazed over. The disturbing moment took only a second, with the businessman never stopping.

"Alright," said Harry, "That was creepy."

The coin wasn't responsible, then. Harry gave another look around, but the only thing nearby was a brick pillar; identical support beams rose to the ceiling between each platform.

Harry stilled, and thoughts whirred. Test? Like Holmes? No, not her style. Nine and Ten. Between each platform. A simple affair. Obvious.

Reaching out, he made to rap his knuckles against the support beam's brickwork.

His fist passed straight through.

Grinning like a loon, Harry Holmes-Potter passed through the facade to platform nine and three-quarters. He never looked back.

-oOo-

Judging from the crowd, or lack of, he must have been early. Not surprising, if he had McGonagall at all pegged. Harry doubted the professor had been late for anything in her life.

The magical side of King's Cross Station was decidedly nicer than the muggle side, with an appearance mishmashed between modern and 19th century. Dominating the platform, in all its gleaming glory, was the Hogwarts Express.

First things first, thought Harry. He walked to the platform's end, where the train tunnel opened into the countryside, and felt Hedwig's weight on his shoulder. McGonagall had said magic owls knew where to go, even if you didn't.

"Want to fly ahead, Hedwig? Stretch your wings a bit?"

The owl flapped once, and swiveled her head to face the open sky.

"All right. See you at Hogwarts."

Hedwig launched from his shoulder, causing Harry to wince, and flew away with striking speed.

Harry turned to board the train, and rolled his shoulder. He hadn't realized just how much Hedwig had been holding back today; he'd have to get some kind of shoulder pad.

Once on board, Harry settled into an empty compartment, and idly stared out the window. His trunk settled itself under the window, lowering with a solid thud. Some time had passed, which he spent watching the slowly thickening crowd, when the compartment door slid open.

A pale boy with dark hair poked his head around the door. His words were painfully soft. "Can I sit here?"

Harry nodded. The boy's shoulders sagged with relief. He entered without another word, and set down a trunk, an empty cage, and himself. The boy then proceeded to stare at his lap.

Chronically shy, Harry thought, and that suited him fine. Like Holmes, Harry found silence best for thinking, and he had much to think about.

The two sat in silence for a long while, two statues with dark hair, until the compartment door re-opened.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the bushy-haired girl who practically skipped into the compartment. She wore a look he had seen once before, when working a case with Sherlock. That particular client was bipolar, and at the time, on a manic high.

"Room for one more?" the girl asked.

Harry wordlessly gestured to the seat across from him, next to the pale boy.

Taking a seat, she slid her trunk to the side and thrust out a hand to the person beside her. The boy flinched.

"I'm Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you."

The pale boy gave a limp handshake. "Neville Longbottom."

Whipping her head around, Hermione fixed Harry with an expectant look.

Harry tried hard to keep a straight after hearing Neville's surname. What kind of etymological origin could a name like Longbottom possibly have?

"Pleasure's mine, Hermione. I'm Harry Potter."

Hermione gave a kind of choked cough, and Neville's eyes seemed very close to bulging out of his head.

They know_, _Harry thought. Not good.

With the way Ollivander spoke earlier, all whispers and furtive glances, Harry had assumed the Boy Who Lived thing was a big secret. Apparently not. Worse, Ollivander had mentioned still-active followers of Voldemort. If Harry's role in the affair was indeed known...

Harry felt his adrenal glands starting to rev into overdrive, and took a deep breath. Don't jump to conclusions, he thought. Wait. Gather the data. And in the meantime, lie like a rug.

He smiled at Hermione. "I know it's not a very common name, but…"

She goggled at him. "Y-you're The Boy Who Lived! You defeated He Who Must Not Be Named! You're in _books_!" She said the last part with near reverence, and with each exclamation, Harry's smiled wilted.

Hermione started to rummage in a satchel at her waist. "Do you have a quill?" She asked. "You just _have_ to sign-"

Harry cleared his throat. "Hermione?"

She froze with a slip of parchment in hand. "Yeah?"

"Before I go signing anything, could I say something?"

She nodded rapidly.

Harry scratched the back of his head. "Everyone tells me I did this great thing. I was only a year old, and supposed to have defeated this great dark wizard. It all seems...a little improbable."

Hermione looked uncertain. "So…you're saying-"

"I'm not saying anything. That's the point. No survivors, no witnesses, and I don't remember a thing about it, so who's to say anything? "

Hermione stared, and Harry shrugged. "Bottom line." he said. "I'm just not comfortable being famous for something I can't even remember."

Now Neville was staring at him, too.

Hermione very slowly put away the parchment slip, and regarded him quietly. "You know, you're kind of different from what I expected."

Harry didn't want to know what she'd expected, and was feeling a whole new kind of gratitude for his adoptive father. Sherlock was a man unconcerned with appearances, and Harry's hair fell around his eyes and ears in a frightful mess, keeping his scar well-hidden. Not that he had ever cared before, but now that same mark was like a target on his forehead.

Silence reigned while two children contemplated the words of their compartment companion, while Harry contemplated the benefits and repercussions of wearing a hat everywhere.

Hermione twitched, chewed her bottom lip, then straightened in her seat, determined to get the conversation rolling again. "Anyway," she said, "I saw you at the station. You had that owl."

"Her name's Hedwig," said Harry.

"She was absolutely gorgeous. I don't have a pet, myself. How about you, Neville?"

Neville looked surprised to be invited into the conversation. He swallowed, opened his mouth, then looked down. Harry could see unshed tears welling up in the boy's eyes.

Hermione leaned closer. "Neville?"

The boy drew in a ragged breath and choked something out, barely understandable. "I lost mine."

Hermione looked suitable apologetic, and consoled him with a few pats on the back.

Harry leaned back and brought his fingertips together. "What kind of pet?"

Neville rubbed his eyes. "Toad."

"And when did you first notice he'd escaped?"

Hermione looked around the compartment, and noticed the small cage tucked by Neville's feet.

"After I got on the train," said Neville, "I had him when I got here, and then I got on the train, and I checked again before I knocked on the compartment, and he was, he was-"

"Calm," said Harry. He watched the boy struggle to contain his emotions. Sherlock was right, they turned you into an absolute mess. "How did you arrive at the platform?"

"My gran. She apparated us here."

"And you're _sure_ he was with you when you got on the train?"

"Yeah."

Harry stood, and a magnifying glass was in his hand. "We need to retrace your steps, right now."

Grabbing Neville by the arm, Harry hauled him from compartment. Hermione followed close behind.

As they moved, Harry pumped Neville for information. "Try to think. What car did you board first?"

"It...I think it was number seven."

Harry nodded and strode as fast as possible down the car, leaving the boy behind.

Hermione tapped Neville's shoulder, and he gave a small jump. "Come on!" she said. With a prod and push, she herded Neville in the direction Harry had gone.

The two arrived at car seven to behold an unusual sight. Harry was on his hands and knees, looking down the corridor. He craned his neck this way and that before suddenly stalked down the corridor, slunk low to the ground, and stopped halfway down the car. Bending to one knee, he his magnifying glass to bear.

There it was, small and nigh imperceptible. A tiny, amphibian foot print.

Harry scurried up and down the corridor, bent low to the ground. He spent some time near the car entrances, nodded, and approached Neville and Hermione.

"Good news, Neville. The tracks clearly indicate it's still somewhere in this car."

Hermione scoffed. "_Tracks_? Like footprints?"

"Exactly like footprints. And Neville's lucky he arrived so early. The floor here is ridiculously clean- probably magic, if I think about it- but the point is, clean enough to track a sticky-footed toad."

Hermione sputtered something, but Harry wasn't listening. He pushed Neville towards the front of the car. "Start checking the compartments, and remember to check under the seats. I'll meet you in the middle."

Harry flung open a compartment door, gave the room a brief glance, and moved on to the next.

Hermione watched this with arms crossed. She looked down the corridor at Neville. Every time he opened a door the boy would droop and glance towards them. If Harry was teasing poor Neville, she would _not _be happy. "Well," she said, "_I _don't see any tracks."

Harry rounded and pressed his magnifying glass into her hand. He pulled her wrist to the ground, forcing her to crouch.

"You would, if you just looked."

Hermione was about to give him a piece of her mind, Boy Who Lived or not, when she looked through the glass. Barely, just barely, saw three little circles of damp on the polished floor. She gaped at the mark until a joyous cry erupted from Neville, halfway down the corridor.

"Trevor!"

She and Harry rushed to the doorway of Neville's compartment. Inside was a very happy young boy, holding close the biggest toad either had ever seen.

-oOo-

Once again, the trio sat in their compartment. Neville still didn't speak, but somehow seemed less shy than before. Hermione was watching Harry suspiciously, as if he had somehow concocted the whole episode.

"So let me get this straight," she said, "You figured it out by the tracks?"

Harry grinned. "Simplicity itself, isn't it?"

Hermione glared. "No, it isn't! I could barely see the one you pointed out!"

"Actually-"

"And how could you search the corridor that fast? How did you know the frog didn't jump off the train?"

The more flustered Hermione became, the happier Harry seemed to grow. "Toad, actually. And if you'll recall, I spent time at the car entrances- and found no tracks. They were all localized in corridor's center."

She huffed. "Then why'd you need Neville to help look?"

Harry's voice was tinged with embarrassment. "Yes, well. I needed to cast my net, as it were, rather wide. I wasn't really trained to find toads, you know, and the tracks were a little confusing. Neville just helped speed things up."

"When you say 'trained'..."

"My dad taught me. He's always saying that there's is no branch of detective science so important and so neglected as the art of tracing footsteps."

Hermione frowned, and wondered what kind of parent would say something like that. Neville, on the other hand, hung onto Harry's words like they were gospel.

"Your dad's a detective?" Neville asked.

"Private consulting detective, actually."

"What kind of stuff did he teach you?"

"Several arts, including the footstep tracing. Mainly though, he taught me the power of observation, and the rational reasoning of said observations."

He turned to Hermione. "For instance, I observe you're a skeptic of the deductive arts."

She rolled her eyes. "How incredible. You've read me like a book."

"Not really. I only observe that you're a so-called muggle-born. That your family is fairly wealthy, but considerably less so than Neville's. That you're right handed, an academic, and nervous about how quills will impact your scholastic performance.

Hermione looked rather scandalized. "T-that's impossible!"

Harry grinned. "Clearly not. Your trunk and satchel are popular muggle brands, ergo, muggle-born. Your new robes are nicer than a professor's, but not of the highest quality, an example of which may be seen on Neville. This puts you upper middle-class, economically speaking."

"As for the academic angle," Harry continued, "You possess extensive knowledge of my infant exploits, knowledge which you could only glean from very recently purchased school books. This places you firmly in the land of academia. And of course any scholarly student would be wary of new mandatory writing instruments, so you practiced with a quill today. Unfortunately, you neglected to notice the ink which smudged upon your right robe cuff."

Harry sat back, trying and failing to look as innocent as possible, while Hermione examined said cuff. She glared at the offending stain, as if it had deliberately spilled her secrets.

Neville was gob-smacked. "That was wicked, Harry."

"On the contrary. It's elementary."


	8. Ch 8, The Sorting

_ Thinking of the Hat, or of any magic that involved a seeming violation of the mind, filled Holmes with loathing. So great was his vehemence, in a man who held emotion itself prisoner, that I could not help but ponder the cause. What secrets does Holmes hold inside, carefully concealed within mental confines? What could cause such a reaction in the great detective?_

_Speculation is pointless, for I am certain the answers to these questions will follow my friend to the grave._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

"What did I expect?" thought Harry, "A university campus?"

The first year students sat in groups, huddled together in small wooden boats. Drifting slowly through the current, one could hear excited words floating over the water. All eyes were on the castle ahead. It was a superb structure, bathed in moonlight, with stately spires of stone thrust high into the night sky. Far-off windows twinkled like jewels, lit from within by wavering torches.

Behind him was Neville and Hermione. The former held his pet close and wore a look that swirled between timid, resigned, expectant, and terrified. The latter was unbelievably and utterly silent.

-oOo-

After disembarkment, the first years were herded inside the school. As they wound to the top of a wide staircase, Harry was pleased to see Professor McGonagall, solemn as ever. She stood before enormous double doors, sternly watching the approaching group.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and be sorted into one of four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Slytherin. While you're here, your house will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn house points, and any rule breaking will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup." She cracked a small smile. "Again, welcome. I'll be back soon, and the sorting ceremony will begin."

Without another word, McGonagall turned on her heel and left. The door shut softly behind her.

A few students milled about, but most clustered together in small, nervous groups. An excited atmosphere pressed down with an almost smothering intensity.

Hermione whispered to Neville. "Do you know how the sorting works?"

Neville gulped, looking a little green. "Sorry, I was about to ask you."

"_Hogwarts: A History _mentions a Sorting Hat, but it kind of glossed over the details." Hermione glanced around. "Where's Harry?"

Neville scanned the crowd, but Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen.

The boy in question had drifted away from the group and propped himself against the wall, not quite hidden in the shadows, but certainly not drawing attention. He relaxed, gathering his thoughts before the sorting. He also watched, with detached interest, a small conflict break out.

A white-haired kid, flanked by two children the approximate size of young gorillas, sneered at a red-headed boy. And said some pretty nasty things too, if Red Hair's face was any indication. Harry took in the scene with a stifled yawn. White-Hair had even nicer robes than Neville, and carried himself like a born aristocrat. In comparison, Red-Hair's robes were a few inches too long, and looked like they were starting to fray around the edges. Undoubtedly some kind of squabble over perceived social stations.

Harry smiled as the great door silently cracked open. Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed as she swept toward the bickering students. When she tapped White-Hair on the shoulder, the boy turned with a glare, only to pale and slink into the crowd. McGonagall frowned as he went.

"Follow me," she said.

-oOo-

Harry supposed he should be somewhat intimidated, Hermione and Neville certainly seemed to be, the way they kept shifting from one foot to the other. They stood at the front of a grand hall with the other first-years, with the entire student body looking on, about to undergo some mysterious "sorting". Harry couldn't bother with nervousness. He was too busy being absolutely mystified by the hat in front of them.

On a small dais, plopped on a stool, was an old, beat up hat with a tear in the middle. Professor McGonagall stood next to it, regarding the headpiece with reserved admiration.

Harry managed to turn his surprise into a quiet cough when the hat began to sing.

-oOo-

The song was...well, not the best of songs, at least in Harry's opinion. But is _was_ informative. Apparently, all they had to do was put on the hat, and it would sort them into a house. Smart kids went to Ravenclaw, brave kids went to Gryffindor, sneaks went to Slytherin, and Hufflepuff got…hard workers?

Harry closed his eyes. Those didn't seem like the most quantifiable traits. How did the hat define "smart", anyway? His thoughts were starting to spiral out of control when McGonagall's loud voice filled the hall.

"HERMIONE GRANGER."

Harry turned just in time to see Hermione's deer-in-the-headlights look. The girl moved like molasses, dragging up the steps like she was facing the gallows. She sat on the stool with a look of utter determination.

McGonagall lowered the hat onto Hermione's head, and the oversized headpiece completely engulfed her cranium. A few moments silently passed before the hat bellowed.

"RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione skipped down the dais to the Ravenclaw table, beaming and shaking hands the whole way.

No surprise there, thought Harry. He watched the process proceed in fascination. Some kids took longer for the hat to place, while others, like the White-Haired kid from earlier, it barely had to touch.

Neville came out from under the hat decidedly dazed. By a small margin, the boy had been under the longest so far, nearly thirty seconds. He stumbled to the Ravenclaw table looking completely shell-shocked.

Finally, Harry stood alone. All the rest had been sorted, and Professor McGonagall gave him an odd look. Her face was a cocktail of apology, condolence, and guilt.

Harry grit his teeth. Anonymity had been nice while it lasted.

"HARRY POTTER."

Whispers and low conversation went off like fireworks as he mounted the steps. He sat down, and stared into a sea of faces before a musty hat lowered over his eyes.

-oOo-

Harry stared at nothing, and waited. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, he whispered into the dark. "Hello? You can sort me any time now."

It started with a faint tickle at the base of his skull. Harry felt a tingle, one he'd come to associate with magic, wind up his spine and settle at the base of his skull.

"No need to whisper, Mr. Potter. No one can hear you in here."

For the briefest of moments, Harry wondered if he'd gone insane. "Are you the Sorting Hat?"

"And he nails it in one. Not that I'm surprised. Quite the little genius, aren't we?"

The wheels in Harry's brain squealed, trying to gain traction. His jaw opened, and some words fell out. "Why won't you sort me?"

"Straight to the point. Sherlock would be proud."

Harry felt his mouth go dry, and tried to swallow. "And how do you know my father?"

The hat gave a mental chuckle, a humming Harry felt behind his left eye. "A better question would be: What _don't_ I know? Here's what happened. You put me on. You activate the contingency spell, and I get carte blanche access to your brain. It's like a book to me, a rather gory one, at that."

The hat chuckled again. "Tell me, what possesses a grown man to drag little kids to murder scenes? After the fact, but still..."

Harry began to hyperventilate, and the closed space didn't help. This was _beyond_ a breach of privacy. This was-

"Relax, kid. The rate you're going, you're gonna have a heart attack."

"Relax? All my memories were just stolen by a sentient hat and you want me to RELAX?"

"Stolen? Yes. Safe? Also yes."

"Eh?"

"I can't betray the students, kid. Not won't. Can't. That's just how they built me. So again, reeelaaax."

Harry felt his heart rate slow down by a small margin. "How can I trust you?"

Somehow, _somehow,_ Harry just knew the hat was smirking. "Proof-wise," said the Hat, "I guess you can't. But think of it this way. I've been trusted with sorting kids for hundreds of years. Voldemort passed under me. And Grindelwald. Do you really think they would've left me alone if I could squeal?"

Harry cringed. He should have thought of that. Voldemort was a homicidal lunatic with a penchant for tying up loose ends. If the Sorting Hat could betray people, it wouldn't still be around, it would be ashes in the wind.

"Fine." said Harry. "I'll let it go. Just sort me already. I think the telepathy is giving me headache."

"And we finally come to the problem."

"Problem?"

"I don't chat with everyone, you know. The contingency spell you tripped gives me a form of sentience. That spell only activates when someone doesn't know what house he wants to go to. Wanna guess why?"

Harry had to admit it. He was impressed. "Because they sort themselves."

"He _is_ good, isn't he? Nailed it, kid. People think I'm some infallible Founder's construct, but I'm just a glorified loudspeaker. Those kids put me on, and I spit out where they want to go, or at least where they _believe_ they want to go."

The hat settled further onto Harry's head, getting comfortable. "That's the beauty of this setup. Kids don't have to be brave to go to Gryffindor. It's enough if they just _want _to be brave."

Harry frowned. "That's why you sing that song. That silly song about the house trait. You're influencing them."

"Exactly. Based on what they hear, everyone prefers a house over the others. Sometimes they're not even consciously aware of the preference, but I can tell. Unless they're like you.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You don't care where you go. You don't even have a subconscious attraction to one. Lemme show you."

The hat took a deep "breath", a twinge Harry felt by his right ear. "Slytherin," said the hat, "Is for evil people."

Harry filed the statement away for future verification.

"You just did it again," said the hat.

"What?"

"That thing you just did! I'm telling you Slytherin's for scum! You should like the other houses _better _now!"

"My dad always told me it was a mistake to theorize before getting all the evidence. Just because I hear about these houses in a song, or someone tells me about them, doesn't mean I have all the evidence."

"Admirable." said the hat, rather dryly. "You realize that isn't normal?"

Harry bristled. "_I'm_ not normal? You're a pseudo-sentient headdress! And this whole sorting procedure is ridiculous!"

"Just pick a house, kid, before _I_ get a headache."

-oOo-

The great hall had been silent for five minutes. At first, whispers had filled the room like a quiet rain, hissing and echoing off the walls. Slowly, everyone had quieted, captivated by the Boy Who Lived.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the Sorting Hat gave a small rustle. Someone gasped, and everyone leaned forward.

"RAVENCLAW!"


	9. Ch 9, Call Me Al

_ Sherlock was overjoyed when his backordered copies of __The Daily Prophet__ arrived. Days he spent poring through them, gleaning knowledge from an untold number of wizarding crimes. He would whittle away countless hours speculating on the nature of these crimes._

_ For him, the question was never "why". Why a man murders his wife is rooted in emotion, magic or not. Since Cain and Abel these emotions have endlessly repeated- jealousy, greed, anger, and all the rest. No, what truly captivated Holmes was the "how". When a wizard killed, it seemed imagination and power was the only limit. _

_Holmes once told me that when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains (however improbable) must be the truth. In the case of magic, this old maxim was laid aside as a relic of more ignorant times. My friend treated the past monstrosities of Magical Britain as an exercise of the mind, a way to expand his thinking into the realm of impossibility._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

The four House Tables bore a feast. Towers of fruit and delicate pastries. Steaming bowls of hearty soups and stews. Savory slabs of meat, perfectly prepared. A meal of truly epic proportions, and Harry barely noticed. He was too busy thinking.

Thankfully, after his marathon sorting session, students seemed nervous to speak with him. Not to say they ignored him; far from it. The Boy Who Lived was the subject of many conversations that night.

Harry swirled a bowl of soup, oblivious to the attention. He half listened to Hermione going on about something. The girl had squeezed herself and Neville on either side of him, despite the crush of curious students surrounding him. She sipped a goblet of pumpkin juice and chattered happily.

"…and then," said Hermione, "You went under for half a minute, Neville! What took so long? Everybody else-" she paused, glanced at Harry, and plowed on. "Well, almost everyone else took a few seconds." She appraised Neville with a shrewd look. "I guess I'll have some competition in class."

Neville shifted in his seat. "I don't think so, Hermione. I never did that good in classes before." Neville blushed before continuing. "I was thinking about Hufflepuff earlier, back on the train. Then the hat went on and I started…It's hard to describe. I just started remembering things, I guess."

"What kind of things?"

Neville flicked his eyes to Harry. "Just things. It's hard to remember, and kind of fuzzy. And then it called Ravenclaw."

Hermione frowned, turned to Harry to ask about _his_ sorting, and resolved to ask later.

Harry was staring into his soup. He wore a blank, dead stare, as if the mind of Harry Potter had gone and left behind a comatose husk.

Hermione suddenly decided it was time to tell Neville about her parents, and scooched away from the Boy Who Lived. Unfortunately, at the crowded table, this was not far at all.

-oOo-

Inside Harry's mind, thoughts shuffled casually. Neville had been giving him subtle looks all evening. The boy's face held an unusual blend of emotions, and for the first time in quite a while, Harry could not tell what someone was thinking. The problem was like an itch he couldn't scratch, or a thorn in his side. Then he remembered the Sorting Hat's words.

_"Kids don't have to be brave to go to Gryffindor. It's enough if they just want to be brave_."

Neville was extremely shy, and evidently friendless. Could Harry's help on the train have influenced the boy that greatly? After all, Neville admitted he didn't consider himself overly intelligent, and was clearly shocked about his placement in Ravenclaw.

A tentative conclusion formed, one Harry felt vaguely uncomfortable with. The Sorting Hat must have seen something in Neville, something Harry had pushed to the fore.

Neville didn't want to be in Hufflepuff, not really. He didn't want to be cripplingly shy, or constantly lose things. He didn't even know it yet, but Neville Longbottom wanted to change.

-oOo-

Hermione choked on some juice when Harry snapped up, like a puppet pulled into action. He shook his head before turning to her. "So Hermione, when's our first class tomorrow?"

The girl slowly reached into her satchel, keeping an eye on Harry. Was this normal behavior for him? She pulled out a parchment packed with dense writing, and looked over the schedule. "First class starts at nine thirty. It looks like they mix up all first years for classes."

"Excellent." Harry nodded, and started wolfing down spoonfuls of soup.

The Ravenclaw table stared the Boy Who Lived with a collective academic curiosity. A few seventh year students looked like they wanted to lobotomize him on the spot. Harry Potter clearly ticked differently than the rest.

-oOo-

Albus Percival Dumbledore was considered by many to be the most powerful wizard currently living. His titles included Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

He was also considered a bit mad.

Not that anyone ever said as much to his face. Popular opinion supposed Albus had always been a bit touched, and a war with not one, but _two_ dark lords had pushed the old man over the edge. Oh, he was still sharp as a tack, but one could not deny Albus possessed more quirks than most.

At the moment he reclined behind his desk, reading a small paperback novel through dainty half-moon glasses. All around his office were small, delicate instruments operating with astonishing variety. They spun and whirred in a silent symphony of movement.

Albus cocked his head to the side, slipped his reading glasses into a robe pocket, and laid his book aside. "Come in, Minerva."

McGonagall entered with a confident stride. Held in one hand was a small, cloth-wrapped object. She placed the object on his desk.

"Any problems?" asked Albus.

"None."

He drew the cloth away, lowered his head, and examined the revealed gemstone. Blood red and roughly cut, it seemed a simple thing.

Why is it, thought the headmaster, that little things are always the most important? Don't they know how inconvenient it is, being so small? So easily lost? With a sigh, he gingerly lowered the stone into a desk drawer, watching until the drawer had completely disappeared.

McGonagall left out a breath, as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders. "Do you really feel this necessary, Albus?"

"I'm afraid so. Gringott's security is superb, but in this case, not quite enough. I believe the stone will be most safe here, and we deny him yet another path." Albus steepled his fingers and leaned back. "But enough of these grave matters. How is Harry?"

McGonagall sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Albus. Mostly, he seems like a normal boy…so much like Lily and James," McGonagall's eyes grew distant as she remembered happier times. With a shake of her head, she met the headmaster's eyes. "I don't approve of Sherlock Holmes."

Albus had conjured a small bowl of candy on his desk and popped a yellow sweet into his mouth. "Lemon Drop?" he asked. McGonagall didn't think it the time for Lemon Drops, and her gaze made that abundantly clear. Albus shrugged. "And what exactly don't you approve of?"

"The man is absolutely not suited to raising a child. You should have seen the way he said goodbye to Harry," she snorted. "Or rather, the way he _didn't_. The way he speaks to the boy is more like an interrogation."

The headmaster raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Holmes was testing him. Harry made a simple comment, and was forced to 'explain his methods', or some such nonsense. The poor boy was under significant stress."

"And they were…?"

"What?"

"His 'methods', as you said."

"They were just simple observations. Things like dust on shoes. Trifles. Harry proved his uncle was leaving for a patient in the country."

"Did he indeed?" Albus stared into his candy bowl. "And did Harry exhibit any of these 'simple observations' in your presence?"

"Yes, but this is hardly the-"

"What were they?"

McGonagall reigned in her rising anger. Albus seemed determined to deflect the conversation away from Sherlock's shortcomings. "He could tell where the entrance to Diagon Alley was, supposedly from…"

"Yes?"

"Footprints."

Albus blinked. "Footprints?"

McGonagall nodded. "He claimed they all went in one direction."

"And did they?"

"I didn't see anything."

The headmaster helped himself to another Lemon Drop. "Well. Footprints again. It _is_ nice to have things come full circle. But then, things usually do, in my experience."

McGonagall tapped her foot.

"Of course," he continued, "One cannot wonder if the student has surpassed the master. The boy does have certain advantages, after all."

McGonagall's foot tapped faster. "Albus…"

He smiled benignly. "Have you already forgotten, Minerva? More than a decade past, when a muggle succeeded where most all wizards have failed? And all from footprints."

t his words, McGonagall thought back. Back to when the Boy Who Lived was brought to Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes had seen through the Headmaster's invisibility with shocking ease.

Albus nodded to himself. "After the feast, ask Harry if he would terribly mind chatting with an old headmaster."

-oOo-

Harry was surprised when McGonagall approached him. He was even more surprised the headmaster used an office password like "sorbet lemon". A password like that surely said something about a man, exactly _what_, Harry couldn't say. As Harry stood in front of the headmaster's office, a voice sounded from the room beyond.

"Come in, Harry."

Harry entered with one eyebrow slightly raised, and came face to face with Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster sat behind a low desk, wearing a look of absolute wisdom and dignity. He also wore the most over-the-top, colorful robes Harry had ever seen.

"Sit, my boy. Please sit. Lemon Drop?"

Harry sat and shook his head. His eyes swept the room, taking in the portraits and contraptions. On a high shelf, silent and still, sat the Sorting Hat. Perched behind Dumbledore was fiery bird that appeared to have red-hot cinders in its plumage.

"How have you been, Harry?"

"Quite well, Headmaster. Thank you."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Please, call me Albus. Or Al, if you prefer. Headmaster is so formal, not to mention nonsensical. Headmaster indeed. The master of whose head? So macabre."

Harry couldn't imagine anyone, much less himself, calling the venerable wizard _Al, _but whatever. He nodded. "I'll try, Albus."

"You have my gratitude, Harry. Names are meant to be used, after all. I'm afraid mine usually manages to hide behind titles. But enough about me, how are you enjoying Baker Street?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't quite-"

Dumbledore waved a hand. "You're quite right. Quite right. I'm getting ahead of myself. It recently came to my you had been adopted by Sherlock Holmes." The old wizard sagged. "And I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?"

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "It must have been hard on you. I just want you to know Harry, if you ever need help, I will be here." Dumbledore put on a brave smile.

Harry leaned back and brought his hands together. "…Thank you for the offer, but everything has been quite all right at Baker Street. I'm more worried about Death Eaters."

The smile fell from Dumbledore's face, leaving a blank slate behind. "Beg your pardon?"

"Voldemort's old followers. I understand very few were actually convicted. Security seems like it could be a problem."

Albus stared. "Security?"

Harry nodded. "Security."

"Security from Death Eaters."

"Precisely. I expect more than few wouldn't mind taking a crack at the Boy Who Lived."

Dumbledore shook his head. "Harry, very few Death Eaters were convicted for a reason. Most of Voldemort's so-called followers were controlled by the Imperious Curse. They were completely helpless, forced to commit the most heinous of crimes. They'll carry that burden for the rest of their lives."

Harry's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and his thoughts churned into overdrive. He remembered talking with Ollivander in the dark, dusty shop. The wand maker's words rang in his head.

"Every day," Ollivander had said, "You'd hear about another Imperious pardon. We called it 'crying curse'. Let me tell you, Mr. Potter, every time one walked away, it made me sick." Harry recalled the old man's jaw muscles, clenching and unclenching. "Every time. Like a knife twisting up into my gut. They'd walk out of court fresh as daisies, all smiles, mocking your loss. Back in those days, a lot of people learned just how much money could buy."

Harry took the words, a forgiving Headmaster's and wounded wandmaker's, and filed them away. Contradiction of two stories usually meant one thing. Someone was wrong.

Harry nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."

"No trouble at all, I'm glad I could clear it up for you, and I'd be happy to answer any other questions. Just ask away."

Harry closed his weary eyes. It had been a long day. "Just one more, and it's quite unrelated. I noticed some kids wearing glasses at dinner. Is performing magic on the eyes impossible, or just overly dangerous?"

Dumbledore beamed. "Excellent question. Magical surgery on the eyeball _is_ possible, and incredibly complicated. However, the risks involved are astronomical. Only the most desperate ever attempt it."

Harry nodded, rising. "I thought so."

"Do tell."

"It must be dangerous, if you yourself would decline the procedure. Goodnight, Headmaster."

Harry rose, reached the door, and turned to say goodbye. Albus was staring at him, eyes twinkling at full tilt. "And how," he asked, "Do you know I wear glasses?"

"Oh, I observed you were wearing them not long ago. Glasses leave very distinctive impressions upon the bridge of the nose. Again, goodnight, sir."

Harry let himself out, and closed the door behind.

Albus sank into his chair, reached into a drawer, and withdrew his book. He then extracted his glasses from the folds of robe, and examined them thoughtfully. Reaching for a final sweet, Albus Dumbledore resumed his novel.

Later that night, he dreamt of following footprints through Lemon Drop mountains.


	10. Ch 10, Confidence

_ The full extent of Harry's power was driven home that night. The moon had waned to a bare sliver and Holmes was late coming home. Harry and I took the man's tardiness in stride, and enjoyed a quiet evening by the fire. Alas, such quiet tableaus never last at Baker Street. Half past eleven, our door was flung open door with sufficient force to rattle the tea set._

_Holmes barreled into the room with wild eyes. "Harry. Case. Assistance. Now."_

_Harry leapt from his chair, pulled on his shoes, and laced them with frantic fingers. I, not wishing to be left behind, threw on my coat._

"_It's the middle of the night," I said, "What's all the hurry?"_

"_No time," said Holmes, motioned for Harry to follow him._

_ We rushed down the stairs and out onto the street. Holmes began jogging east. He wove through the London streets and byways, and led us to the center of a large park. Away from immediate city lights, I was struck by how dark the night truly was. What little moonlight may have shown was masked by veils of cloud._

_Holmes turned to Harry, speaking rapidly. "Not one hour ago, two men stood near this parks center. They came separately and left together. I need to know which direction they left."_

_Harry nodded, and his eyes changed from green to the golden herald of Midas Sight. He ran to and fro through the grass with Holmes always at his heels. Within mere minutes the tracks were found. Two sets of prints led to the park's western edge and disappeared down a dark alley._

"_Good lad," said Holmes. In a thrice, faster than Harry or I could follow, the detective had bolted. He reached the alley's end in a twinkling, and scaled the rear fence with all the grace of a jungle cat in his natural habitat._

_I was not aware at the time, but that night marked a turning point in the mind of Harry Holmes-Potter. It was the first night that he, through fortuitous circumstance and natural advantage, had in some small way bested the greatest detective alive._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

Harry was accustomed to long nights, in the fashion of his adoptive father. Sherlock was not one who gave easily to the demands of too-weak flesh. The detective would often spend the night deep in thought, pacing back and forth like a great cat searching for prey. Long nights were spent waiting on bubbling beakers, or poring over obscure directories, searching. Searching for that one crucial clue.

Years of such nights had turned Harry into something of a night owl. Truth be told, he now found his best thoughts came once night had fallen. It was not an excessive habit, nor overly harmful, but ideas came in the quiet moments for Harry, and when was more quiet found, if not at night?

First to arrive in the in the dormitories, Harry found the beds had already been assigned, clearly marked by student's trunks at the foot of each bed.

After a furtive glance at the dorm entrance, Harry went to his trunk and pulled open it's largest drawer, revealing the descending staircase. He hadn't missed the curious looks from dinner, and didn't fancy playing twenty questions with inquisitive first-years. Besides, he reasoned, what use was magic furniture if one never used it?

He mounted the steps and pulled the drawer shut behind him.

The room was just as he remembered, and Harry wasted no time making himself at home. He drug a small table next to the ever-crackling fireplace, and set out some parchment and quills. It was an old habit, for when he had too many thoughts crammed into his skull. Holmes might be able to juggle a thousand thoughts inside his head, but Harry preferred the surety of ink and paper.

Dipping a quill, he began to write "Facts", but only got as far as the letter "c". The quill spat and splattered ink everywhere. Harry glared at the quill before setting down a fresh piece of parchment.

Some time later, a very speckled and blotched letter was finished. It read, "If convenient, please send pens. If inconvenient, send anyway. -HHP."

Harry climbed back up the stairs, and pondered the exact particulars of mailing by owl. Could you even send mail to the muggle world? Cracking the drawer open, he checked to make sure the coast was clear, and slid back the drawer.

To his surprise, a quiet hoot sounded from above. He looked up and bit back a yelp. Hedwig sat atop his trunk not three inches away, with huge, unblinking eyes.

Holding the letter out, Harry whispered, "For Sherlock Holmes, 221 B, Baker Street."

Hedwig stared, and he was just starting to feel foolish when she gave an unmistakable _nod_, snatched the letter in her beak, and flew out a nearby window.

Harry descended back to the den, sank into a chair by the fire, and idly pondered the odds of Hedwig waiting just as he came out, just as he needed her.

-oOo-

_Tap. TapTap._

Harry woke with a start, and sleepily blinked around.

_TapTapTap._

A persistent came from the ceiling. With a yawn, Harry hauled himself from the chair and mounted the stairs. He carefully slid back the entrance, and was relieved to see Hedwig impatiently tapping her beak on the trunk lid. She clicked her beak and thrust a leg at him. Five ballpoint pens encircled the appendage, held in place by a rubber band. He removed them and discovered a small note wrapped beneath.

The paper was scrawled with Sherlock's loose, flowing script. "Cheap. Convenient. Kippers only fare."

Harry grinned. Hedwig must have nabbed some dinner leftovers. He scratched the back of her neck. "Aren't you just the cleverest owl in England? You made great time." Harry took in the still-empty dorm. How long had he dozed off? If no one had come to bed yet...surely it had been longer than a few minutes? He gave "Actually, you might have made impossible time."

Hedwig straightened regally, ruffled her feathers, and swooped out the window.

-oOo-

At three o'clock in the morning, Harry wearily crawled from his trunk into bed. As his eyes drooped shut, he imagined Sherlock's common lament:

_ "Data, data, data. I cannot make bricks without clay_."

-oOo-

Something roused Harry to, in his opinion, an entirely too early morning. Someone was shook his shoulder, and he tried to focus some sudden sudden sounds.

"Harry? Harry, wake up."

Harry turned over with a groan, and observed a blurry form beside his bed. A few blinks, and the fuzzy blur focused into Neville Longbottom. "What time's it?" he asked.

Neville held forth a cheese sandwich. "Almost time for first class. And you missed breakfast. Hermione asked about you."

Harry rubbed some sleep from his eyes and grabbed the sandwich. He made short work of the cheddar and toast, and leapt out of bed. Neville stood back as Harry walked into the shared bathroom, only taking the time to wash his face and brush his teeth. Morning rituals complete, he returned to the foot of his bed, opened a side compartment of his trunk, and began rummaging deeper than seemed physically possible.

"What's first class?" asked Harry.

"Transfiguration with McGonagall. And you don't want to be late. That's what I heard, at least."

Harry pulled out a set of school robes. "Oh? And what do you hear?"

"They say she's a right taskmaster. Better hurry."

Harry threw the robes on, right over his wrinkled pajamas, and bent down to tie his shoes. "You know, I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the whole robe thing, but they _do_ have advantages, don't they?"

"I...guess?"

"Hmm. You know, my father has this saying. Observation is the highest evidence."

"Huh?"

Harry stood. "Second-hand evidence- what _they_ say- is always suspect. Conclusions are reserved for that happy time when you've observed the facts for yourself."

Neville's gave a slow, tentative nod. Harry buttoned the robes over his nightwear, and motioned for him to lead the way.

-oOo-

As it turned out, they were among the first to arrive. The pair walked into the sparsely populated classroom and immediately noticed Hermione. It was hard not to, with her waving enthusiastically at them. Harry sat next to her, in the front row, with Neville taking a seat beside him.

"Morning!" said Hermione, "I didn't see you at breakfast?"

Harry pulled a notebook from the collar of his robes. "If split between, I prefer sleep over food."

Neville wondered where Harry had pulled the notebook, and resolved to ask later. Hermione also looked like she had something to say, but the words died in her throat when Harry brought out a ball point pen.

"That's cheating!" she said.

"What?"

Neville leaned in to peer at the obviously muggle device.

Hermione brandished a quill at Harry's head. "We're _supposed _to use _quills_!"

"I'm sure the professors wouldn't refuse my need for the comforting familiarity of home."

Hermione huffed, glared at her quill, and muttered something under her breath. Harry caught the words "trampling" and "tradition". He grinned.

"What is it?" asked Neville.

Harry twirled the pen expertly. "_This_ is a writing instrument. A ball-point pen."

"What about your inkwell?"

"No need. All the ink is stored inside."

Harry signed his name at the notebook's top, and watched Neville's eyebrows climb upwards. Hermione pulled out some parchment, gave Harry a pointed look, and signed her name with an elaborate flourish. Not a single stray speck of ink marred the paper.

By the end of class, Harry's brain was reeling at the potentials of transfiguration, Hermione proved herself a rather dab hand at magic, and Neville wanted a pen of his own.

-oOo-

So far, thought Harry, not a bad day. Most of his classes had been engaging and informative, even if they were a magnitude less stressful than the lessons he'd become accustomed to. Charms with the hyperactive Professor Flitwick had been particularly fascinating. The diminutive man moved with a fluid, understated grace. Harry had seen that same grace in one of Sherlock Holmes' old clients, a retired fencing instructor. The professor exhibited an impressively precise economy of movement that bespoke years of some physical discipline.

And then…there was Snape. Of all the things he had observed today, the Potions Master was by far the most perplexing. For some reason Harry could not fathom, Snape hated him. The man fed his emotions with an unrestrained intensity that Harry found almost disturbing.

In the face of that bizarre anger, Harry had opted for silence, and resorted to merely shrugging in ignorance whenever a question was asked of him. His mute responses had infuriated the professor, but mercifully forced the man's attention elsewhere. Harry hoped his passive resistance would cool the man's unbridled aggressiveness. If it did not, perhaps the Headmaster would see fit to intervene.

With a shake of his head, Harry pushed thoughts of Snape to the back of his mind. Later he might give more thought to the matter, now was not the time.

At the moment he was waiting, once again with Hermione and Neville, for the day's last class to begin. Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Harry admitted it sounded promising, and his classmates certainly seemed to agree. The students were charged with excitement, eagerly waiting for Hogwart's most dangerous class to begin.

Without warning, the room's door slammed open. Wound as they were, more than half the class jumped in their seats. A young man, fairly oozing confidence, strode towards the front of the room. Harry watched closely. The professor wore dark purple robes, a tightly wound turban, and carried himself with the same dangerous grace as Flitwick. The man stepped behind the professors podium and swept the room with a measured gaze.

The professor spoke with a clear, unwavering voice. Though his volume was conversational, the words easily carried throughout the room. "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Introductions. I am Professor Quirrell, or Professor, or Sir. Simple and to the point, introductions are over."

Harry smiled. He couldn't quite place it, but this professor reminded him of someone.

Quirrell leaned against the podium, a perfect picture of relaxed ease. "Before we begin, I'd like to make one thing perfectly clear. This class will not be about memorizing spell lists. It will not have multiple choice tests. And it will most _certainly_ not be about turning in twelve inch essays by Monday."

Harry didn't have to look, he could feel Hermione's horror coming off in waves.

"Some of you will not approve of my teaching style. To those I say this: You cannot defend yourself with an essay. Although, it may be possible to give someone a paper cut." A few students laughed, and he smiled. "But why bother with paper cuts when _diffindo_ can take off an arm?"

No one laughed.

"Make no mistake," said Quirrell, "The only purpose of this class is to teach you defense. Defense against what, you ask? Tell me. Yes, you in the front row."

The professor pointed directly at Neville. Harry was suitably impressed when the shy boy managed to squeak out two words, even if their pitch approached levels undetectable by human ears.

"D-dark Arts?"

Quirrell stared at Neville for a moment, and raised a solitary eyebrow. "Succinctly said, Mr. Longbottom. One point to Ravenclaw, for a personal achievement, if nothing else."

Harry beheld the gratified shock on Neville's face, and felt his appreciation for this new professor growing by the second.

"Dark Arts," said Quirrell, "As in Dark Magic. As in dark wizards or witches trying to inflict harm on your person."

The professor scowled. "The _ministry _mandates a very specific curriculum for this class. It seems explicitly designed to fill your heads with the most ridiculous, convoluted methods of defense known to bureaucrats. And almost exclusively against magical creatures.

The scowl deepened. "You'll find this philosophy spills over into your other classes. For instance, your herbology books recommend a way to escape a nasty subterranean plant called the Devil's Snare. They suggest a spell designed to emit light carefully calibrated to the same UV spectrum as natural sunlight."

Quirrell rolled his eyes. "Apparently, the ministry hopes you can remember this obscure and _extremely_ limited incantation in addition to all your other spells. Other spells you _will _be expected to memorize for tests. These will eventually number in the many dozens."

Student's sat in shock as Quirrell tore into their educational system. Harry listened with rapt attention as the professor mowed on.

"If by fluke or stupidity you find yourself caught by a Devil's Snare, a simple cutting curse comes _highly_ recommended." Quirrell sighed. It was a sound filled to the brim with long-suffering at the hands of idiots. "And please, _please_ refrain from bringing up apparation. If it was up to me, I'd teach you all before the year was out. Now, any questions?"

Harry immediately raised his hand.

"Mr. Potter, you have the floor."

"If it's not too off topic, professor, I was curious about your turban. Not a typical fashion statement, if I may say so."

Many students turned to regard the Boy Who Lived with confusion. Some spattered laughter died when it became evident that Harry was, in fact, completely serious.

Quirrell nodded to himself, as if some personal theory had been confirmed. "This," he pointed at the turban, "Was a gift received after rendering services to a certain West European dignitary. The man had a werewolf problem, I had a solution."

Reaching up, he removed the headpiece and spun it briefly on the end of a finger. Without the turban he appeared older, more distinguished. Standing straight with close cropped hair, he gave off a distinctly military impression. "I do _not _use it, as some rumors have suggested, to store garlic. If anyone here is ever unfortunate to meet a vampire, please note that garlic is completely ineffective. In that situation, apparating away is generally considered a top option. Next question."

Harry's odd query had effectively broken the ice, and a sea of hands rose. Hermione's was up first by a healthy margin.

-oOo-

Sherlock Holmes was depressed. Quite honestly, not a very unusual emotional state for him. Black moods had always taken him at the slightest provocation, but this one seemed an unusually fine specimen of negative disposition. Harry had only been gone two days and Watson was already commenting on his touchy disposition.

Holmes sat near the window, blowing tobacco smoke out into the cold night. Even with Harry gone, the habit persisted.

So bored. He could almost feel his mental capacities rusting away. He needed a case soon, and not the piddling matters would-be clients tried to push on him. Just the other day a woman came and asked him to locate her husband; she was convinced the man was having an affair.

Holmes angrily struck his pipe into an ashtray. Ridiculous. He had kept the confidence of kings, and these…these _people_ saw fit to pester him with their petty problems.

The morose detective looked down at the empty London street, hoping to catch sight of a mugging. One would expect a plethora of cases, with degenerates all but bursting from the city's seams.

But then, he sullenly thought, even with a case in hand, one could never be assured of adequate mental stimulation. Criminals of brilliance were rare as any form of genius.

Such internal grousing was cut short when he Holmes felt his knees give out. He crumpled to the floor without a sound, and bit his lip against the sudden migraine that speared his mind.

Consciousness faded with merciful quickness.

-oOo-

Holmes groaned and pushed up onto his hands and knees, the detective opened his eyes to a stark white floor. He couldn't help but smile through the pain.

Baker Street had floors of wood.

Finally, some excitement.

He stood with a wince, and took stock of his surroundings. He was in a white room. Very white. Smooth, pure white floors, ceiling and walls. The space was harshly lit, despite no light source being readily apparent.

Against one wall leaned a pale man, watching him with a bored sort of confidence.

Holmes knew instinctively the man was not a nice person, for lack of a better word. Though how he knew this, he couldn't quite say. Maybe it was the eyes.

Yes, he decided, definitely the eyes. Like a snake, the man had had slits for pupils.

Holmes pocketed his and leaned against a wall of his own. "It's only fair to warn you," he said, "I'll fetch a very low ransom."

The man grinned. "So calm, Mr. Holmes. So very _not_ intimidated. I wonder, would the calm would last if you knew where you were?"

"Try me."

The man chuckled. "You know, you're living up to my expectations admirably," he then laid a hand on the wall behind him. To Holmes' astonishment, a window appeared.

A chill settled into his bones, and the detective walked forward. "Magic, I assume?"

The wizard nodded with a smile grown impossibly wide.

Holmes looked through the window and observed...his Baker Street apartment? And there _he_ was. There on the floor, crumpled next to the open window, was himself.

"Curious," said Holmes. He threw a shoulder against the thin glass, frowning as it held without a single crack. "And rather pointless. Some sort of magical coma?"

"You wound me, Sherlock. A coma?" The wizard waved, and then disappeared without a sound.

Holmes spun around, expecting some underhanded attack, but none came. After a wary moment, he turned back to the window, and watched incredulously as his other self stirred. His body turned, stared directly at him through the little window, and winked.

Thoroughly disturbed, he watched as his body once again collapsed.

"What do you think?"

Turning slowly on his heel, Holmes thoughtfully regarded the re-appeared snake-man. "Many things. But mostly, I think your plan is doomed to failure."

"Oh?"

"Of course. A wizard, of questionable moral character, suddenly comes to…shall we use the term possess?"

The wizard looked disgusted. "Let's not. I'd hate for you to taint the concept of magic with your silly muggle ideas. We'll keep it simple. Just call it a sort of enforced, one-way schizophrenia."

Holmes squashed down his rising nerves, and continued. "Very well. A wizard comes to... acquire and partition the mind of Sherlock Holmes, a man who, among other distinctions, is the legal guardian of the Boy Who Lived. Coincidence does not _begin_ to describe such an occurrence. Obviously, your target is Harry Potter. Unfortunately, as I said, your attempt will fail."

The wizard seemed unperturbed by Holmes's prediction. "An amusing notion."

"Is it?"

Annoyance flickered across the wizard's face. "Typical, unfounded muggle confidence. In time, the matter won't even concern you."

Now that_,_ thought Holmes, does not sound promising. "Some horrible fate awaits me, then?"

"Of course," said the wizard, mimicking the detective's earlier tone, "Consciousness, once trapped within itself, faces inevitable deterioration."

Holmes remained outwardly calm, but the words struck painfully. They flayed open his greatest fear, the black thought that visited during his darkest depressions. The line between genius and insanity was so very thin. Only Holmes himself knew how closely he toed that line. Sometimes, on his worst days, he felt it bending.

Betrayal by friends did not concern the detective. Betrayal by his own mind terrified him beyond fear.

A wave from the wizard and the window vanished, leaving behind a smooth white wall. "Goodbye, Sherlock. Try to enjoy the time you have left."

It was a guess, but given the circumstances, Holmes indulged. "Likewise, Voldemort."

Snake eyes bored into the detective's unflinching eyes, until, without a word or sound, the wizard vanished.

Holmes sighed, crouched, and lay upon the hard floor. He closed his eyes and could hear, as if from a great distance, the faint sound of violins.


	11. Ch 11, Old Plans

_ Dumbledore remained an enigma to me. At times he seemed an eccentric headmaster, a man no more burdened than you or I. But there were moments, at the strangest of times, during the most innocent of conversations, that he seemed something more. In those moments, his eyes were not those of a simple headmaster._

_As a retired army field doctor, I remember seeing such eyes. During my stint in Afghanistan, some soldiers would come to me with battle-high minds, dragging the lifeless body of companions. To a doctor, they thought, to a doctor and all's well._

_When it finally sank in, and they realized another friend was gone, they would sometimes blame themselves. The knowledge that their best was not enough, and perhaps would never be, haunted them. Those soldiers had the eyes of Albus Dumbledore._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD _

-oOo-

It received high praise in_ Witches Monthly _magazine. In their bi-annual column, "Top Ten Romance Novels for Cold Nights", it was hailed as a triumph of modern fiction. A worn copy of the work in question, _Warm Wind Through the Wizard's Hair_, lay on Albus Dumbledore's desk.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, questioning (not for the first time) why he continued to read such tripe. Authors just didn't write romance like they used to.

At least this time the antagonist, Count Gregory, had character. The Count used his wits and wiles to sweep women off their feet. Dashingly debonair, he teasingly toyed with emotions, masterfully misleading innocent beauties. His bold sense of fashion rounded off a rather good character.

Dumbledore didn't have to approve of, but he could certainly respect any man who pulled off a cape.

Of course, in the end, all of Count Gregory's carefully crafted plans had to come crashing down. Brought low, as usual, by the protagonist's straightforward, stubborn efforts. And this was naturally regarded as a Good Thing. Which it was, to certain people. But how did poor Gregory feel about it? No one, including the author, seemed to care.

Dumbledore solemnly raised a lemon drop in silent toast to the fictitious Count. He popped the sweet into his mouth and reluctantly turned his attention to more practical matters.

Most of these matters centered on the Boy Who Lived.

Many considered the old headmaster mysterious and infallible, but Dumbledore knew better. He certainly cultured the "mysterious" aspect, but held no delusions of infallibility. He just hid his failures better than most. The trick was how to minimize a mistake's effect, and reduce it to the point where no one noticed it ever even happened.

Old tricks aside, Dumbledore knew he was walking a fine line with the Boy Who Lived. The line was thin when he started, and now he approached the proverbial knive's edge. Harry was shockingly mature, far more than he dared have hoped. That part of the plan seemed to have gone off perfectly, and now the next phase was ready.

Except for one problem.

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, and did not resist as his thoughts drifted back to the night it all began.

When Severus Snape had entered the headmaster's office that evening, Albus expected many things. He expected misinformation, outright lies, and poorly concealed threats. He had not expected a confession.

Snape was a Death Eater. This in itself was no great secret. Most everyone expected it (even if they couldn't prove it). The dark potions prodigy fit the role very well, perhaps to the point of cliché. An angry, talented man, with more than a passing interest in the Dark Arts. And yet there he stood, bearing terrible news, and begging for the headmaster's help.

Voldemort knew the prophecy, and he had chosen the Potters.

A simple revelation, but one that forced Dumbledore to feel his many years like a mountain on his back. The prophecy had been his closest guarded secret. A remarkable prophecy made by an otherwise unremarkable seer, revealing threads of the future's fabric.

Only two families matched the prophetic criteria: the ancient houses of Longbottom and Potter. Each family had a newborns, and the prophecy foretold one of these babes would someday end the Dark Lord, or be destroyed in turn.

Dumbledore had known the prophecy for some time, and he had been sure the Longbottom babe would someday fulfill it's words. All evidence pointed in that direction.

Throughout the war, Voldemort preached the superiority of Purebloods. Purebloods like the Longbottoms. Why should the Dark Lord deign to pay Harry Potter any attention? A child tainted with the muggle blood of his mother could surely pose no threat in the eyes of that blood-supremist. It was incomprehensible that Voldemort would consider an inferior half-blood capable of vanquishing a wizard such as he.

Naturally, against everything Dumbledore had prepared for, Voldemort targeted Harry Potter.

-oOo-

_ - October 31, 1981, Godric's Hollow- _

Dumbledore could not remember the last time he'd had to actually run. He preferred to apparate. Or, baring that, a stately walk.

Right now, he was sprinting. Up the front lawn, through the shattered front door, and into the bedroom of Lily and James Potter.

Within was a grisly sight, one the old wizard would remember in perfect detail for decades to come. He took in the scene, and time seemed to slow. On the floor lay Lily and James, crumpled and lifeless. Next to them was the small, still-breathing body of Harry Potter.

At the center of carnage was a man, if monsters could be considered men. He surveyed his surroundings with a satisfied gaze. The same eye an artist might give a masterpiece. Voldemort heard the headmaster enter, but did not turn. At the moment, Voldemort had eyes only for Harry Potter.

"It ends tonight, Tom," said Dumbledore. His words were flat. Lifeless.

Voldemort turned, and his eyes danced with merry madness. Within that gaze burned a fire, a wild blaze that wanted to consume everything it saw. Albus could see it reaching out for him, trying to pull him in and burn him like so many before.

"Wrong as always, headmaster. Tonight, it begins."

The Dark Lord started to turn again towards Harry, but paused. Albus had drawn his wand and leveled it one inch above a madman's heart.

"You know the prophecy," sneered Voldemort, "Don't pretend you have the 'power to vanquish the Dark Lord'. As if you ever had the stomach to finish things." Voldemort spread his arms wide. "Is this where you start preaching? Go ahead, for old time's sake. Tell me how it's not too late to turn back."

The Headmaster flicked his wand. Behind Voldemort, just to the left of his head, a charred hole was blown from the wall.

The Dark Lord sighed and lowered his hands. "Such power. And still such weakness." He turned and pointed his wand at the still form of Harry Potter.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

A moment passed, then another. Voldemort slowly turned, and surprise was etched on his face.

Dumbledore watched with arm extended, wand tip still glowing green, as the Dark Lord sank to the floor, dead.

Later he would forgive himself. He would tell himself it was for the best, for the greater good. But right then, surrounded by death, he only felt sick.

He crossed the room and gathered Harry Potter into his arms. A whispered _incendio _set the room afire.

With a thunderous crack, the two were gone without a trace.

-oOo-

Very few entered the Forbidden Forest for a reason. It was an isolated place, drenched in wild magic, barely fit for the beasts who called it home. More often than not, those wizards who entered met swift and sticky ends.

Albus loved the forest. He reveled in the magic and isolation. It was where he went to think.

He appeared in a quiet clearing, causing various small woodland creatures to scurry away in fright. He set Harry down into a hastily conjured picnic basket and began to pace, casting wards as he walked.

The prophecy was clear. It seemed Harry Potter, not the Longbottom boy, was the key to Voldemort's ultimate defeat. Th Dark Lord may be gone for now, but Dumbledore did not for a moment doubt his return. He would be back. Dumbledore had bought time, not victory.

His thoughts piled up, and Albus paced faster.

Everything came back to the prophecy. It was known by more people than he liked. He'd told McGonagall, and if Snape knew, it was no stretch to assume some Death Eaters did as well. No, the prophecy could not repressed, but…

The headmaster felt an idea start to form. Yes...maybe he bought more than time. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could buy peace as well. If he could convince everyone the Dark Lord was gone forever, the Death Eaters would divide and fall. That could be a crippling blow for Voldemort's eventual return, and could give Dumbledore the means and time to amass connections, defenses, and power.

The prophecy's fulfillment was a simple thing to fake. How did that line go?

"_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal_."

Dumbledore touched his wand tip to the sleeping infant's forehead. "Forgive me for this, Harry."

-oOo-

Minerva McGonagall was grading essays when Albus' patronus landed on her desk. The transparent silver phoenix opened its beak, the headmaster's voice came forth. "My office. New war developments."

McGonagall made her way to the headmaster's office and readied her nerves for the worst of news. Had another family disappeared? Another student taken the Dark Mark?

Soon she was outside Dumbledore's office. She squared her shoulders and opened the door. The Headmaster sat behind his desk. He wore a melancholy smile, and beside him sat a large picnic basket.

"News?" she asked.

For the first time in a very long while, McGonagall could see a shimmer of the headmaster's trademark twinkling eyes. "Some bad news, I'm afraid. But good news, too."

McGonagall stood silently. It had been some time since she'd heard any good news.

"Lily and James...they're gone."

McGonagall paled. "How?"

"Voldemort."

McGonagall flinched at the name, but pressed on with wet eyes. "And Harry?"

Dumbledore nodded his head toward the open picnic basket.

She leaned forward with a breath of relief, and peered into the basket. With a gasp, her hand reached out and stopped just short of the child within.

Harry Potter slept peacefully, but on his forehead, like a jagged lightning bolt, was a angry red scar.

"What happened to him?" asked McGonagall.

"We can only guess, but I found three corpses inside the Potter's house. Lily, James…and Voldemort."

McGonagall sank into a chair. "Dead? Voldemort?"

"Yes. Harry was the only survivor." Dumbledore leaned back, tapping his fingertips together. "It's not an ordinary scar. Such marks only come from curses of...considerable darkness. For whatever reason, one I cannot begin to fathom, it seems whatever curse Voldemort cast on Harry rebounded with fatal results."

McGonagall gripped the armrests, wearing a dazed expression. "Dead?"

Dumbledore gave a small smile. "Yes, Voldemort is dead and the prophecy has been fulfilled. But this is not the end…Minerva?"

McGonagall shook her head and fixed clear eyes on the headmaster.

"Harry needs to go underground," said Dumbledore, "No half-hearted attempts. We need to hide him in the muggle world."

"But surely-"

Dumbledore raised a hand, stalling any objections. "It must be done. Too many know the prophecy. Too many will guess how Voldemort died. And they _will_ seek revenge."

"But with muggles_-_"

"Is the very last place you'd expect to find Harry Potter. Trust me on this, Minerva."

A tense second passed when headmaster and professor locked eyes. Dumbledore watched in relief as her posture relaxed.

McGonagall crossed her arms. "I suppose you have someone in mind?"

"I am leaning towards a candidate, yes."

An innocent statement, but one that held hidden troves. Long had Dumbledore made plans in the event the prophecy being leaked. Tactics under contingencies supported with backup plans. They had been in place for some time. Now one of those many plans could be custom-tailored for Harry Potter.

Beyond Dumbledore, not many knew of Lily Potter's _muggle_ relatives. If Albus could arrange for the last will and testament of Lily and James to be...misplaced, then the Dursley's stood to inherit Harry's guardianship. Dumbledore was sure they were very nice muggles. With loving relatives, the boy would no doubt enjoy a simple, idyllic childhood.

It was regrettable that the headmaster could never allow it.

He wished things could be different, but the prophecy could not be denied. It was writ in the very fabric of magic. One day the destruction of Lord Voldemort would rest solely on Harry Potter's shoulders. Kill or be killed, as it were. To survive what was to come, the boy would have to make sacrifices.

The first sacrifice would be made for him, right now.

Dumbledore needed an individual of unique disposition. Someone cold. Brutal. Intelligent. A guardian who would push the boy leagues farther than some loving family.

Countless research and surveillance had yielded a single man who met these exacting criteria, at least within England, and his name was Sherlock Holmes.

The rewards would be substantial, Dumbledore was sure. Even so, for a moment the headmaster felt something inside, gentle and warm. It asked if a softer path might be taken.

Unbidden, the faces of Lily and James rose in his mind, followed by countless others whom the war had claimed. Then he heard Voldemort's words, uttered what seemed a lifetime ago.

_ "Such power, and still such weakness."_

Albus Dumbledore felt the warm, gentle something harden to glass.


	12. Ch 12, The Box

_ Holmes' smoking was an act I discouraged for years to no avail. When Harry was adopted, I'd hoped the child's presence would put an end to Holmes' addiction. Such hopes proved unfounded. The eccentric detective merely added another strange habit to his repertoire._

_ When the mood for smoke proved too great, my friend would do so outside. Raising a window and placing his entire torso outside, Holmes would grasp the interior wall and lean over the busy street below. Like a great gargoyle he stayed thus, smoking for extended periods of time with no apparent strain._

_When Pomfrey discovered Sherlock's addiction, the medi-witch deemed such insufficient. She chastised me in particular, being a fellow medical practitioner. How could I, she asked, allow smoking in a home with children?_

_ Holmes' listened stoically; sure his beloved vice was finally facing the gallows. Imagine my surprise (and Holmes' delight) when Madam Pomfrey did not end his pungent pastime. The good nurse instead provided potions. After each smoking session, the whole family was to ingest one dose of Lung Lifter. The concoction would restore our damaged respiratory systems, and even repair past damage._

_Holmes, being a skilled chemist, was fascinated. Though I can never catch my old friend with it, Harry's entry potions text seems distinctly dog-eared of late._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

It did not take long for the more observant students to notice and wonder. Just _where_ did Harry Potter sneak to after dinner? The Boy Who Lived always left early, skipped off in the vague direction of the Ravenclaw dormitories, and promptly disappeared from the face of the earth.

Older students gave sage little smirks. Invisibility, they thought. Not bad for a first year. But this _was_ Harry Potter, after all.

More mischievous students nodded slyly to one another. Every good prankster and sneak knew at least a few secret passages. They had to admit, the Potter kid caught on fast.

It never crossed anyone's mind (save perhaps Hermione Granger's) that the Boy Who Lived spent his secret hours studying. Or more accurately, experimenting. In the secure confines of his trunk, he would whittle away hours reading, writing, casting, thinking, and pacing. Those sessions would consume him until the early hours of morning.

At the moment, he was lying on the floor and pointing his wand at a pen some feet away.

"_Tractus,"_ he said. The pen rolled toward him.

"_Pulsus_," and the pen rolled away.

He rose and went to a desk cluttered with paper. He chose a mostly clean parchment form the mess and scribbled some notes. As he wrote with one hand, another reached down the front of his shirt and fumbled for the mokeskin pouch.

"One cracker," he said, and promptly devoured the appearing pastry. The best thing about carrying things in a mokeskin, in Harry's opinion, was you never had to worrying about stuff getting smushed.

"Beverage thermos."

Of course, he thought, sipping hot pumpkin juice, you still had to contend with cracker crumbs. But even those baked nuisances were easily dealt with. Just tip the bag upside down and call for crumbs.

Harry finished his notes and stretched, easing the stiffness from sore muscles. Piles of books lay scattered about the floor. Some gathered dust in forlorn corners, others lay open. All were casualties in a war of learning.

The most useful ones were kept on the couch, ready and waiting. Among them was _Magical Theory 101_; _So You Wanna Cast Wandless?_; _Gertrude's Giant Grimoire: England's Best Spell Index_; and _Wandless Incantations: Patrick Pogglesnock's Entry Primer for the Serious Student_.

After exhaustive reading and experimentation, Harry had come to some conclusions.

First off, tomorrow he would mail order a copy of Gertrude's Grimoire. The tome didn't contain spells for dueling, but boasted a near-complete catalogue of household and general incantations. With a page count approaching one thousand, the book was truly massive, and printed with such tiny letters that it came with a free set of magnifying Gryphon Goggles. Gertrude's Grimoire enjoyed massive popularity with magical England's housewife population, but found precious little favor anywhere else.

Harry thought it might be the best book he'd ever read.

Already it had proved enormously useful by providing the simple _Tractus _and _Pulsus_ incantations for his last experiment. The book contained a spell for literally everything he had thought up thus far. Sometime this week, he really would have to ask a professor about spell crafting. Did the government approve, regulate, and craft spells? Maybe freelance artisans created them on a commission basis? Whatever the case, Harry could not imagine the system that spurred someone to create incantations that caused one's clothing to _billow dramatically _(the spell's description suggested it be applied to capes, and assured the reader that yes, the effect was monumentally impressive).

New spells aside, the most pressing questions arose soon after he delved into books on wandless magic.

Just _what_ had Sherlock Holmes taught him?

For years he'd trained magic in conjunction with the deductive arts, but no matter how many books Harry read, he could not find an example or explanation for his Midas Sight. By definition, it wasn't wandless magic. It lacked that discipline's concrete framework and structure. Neither did it match descriptions of accidental magic. The ability almost seemed a cross between the two. Was it possible, with an unbiased and unique upbringing, that one could develop unique forms of magical expression?

Harry recalled Dumbledore's dire warnings about ocular magic, and resolved to keep such singular abilities to himself, at least for now.

-oOo-

The next morning found Harry Potter sleeping soundly at the Ravenclaw table. He was dreaming of lying on a bed of the softest marshmallows imaginable. The fluffy sweets called to him in marshmallowy, sing-song voices.

"Comfy, Harry?" they asked in warm, comforting tones. "Even brilliant detectives have to rest sometime, Harry. Harry? HARRY!"

The Boy Who Lived jolted from dreamland, and snapped up like a mousetrap. He blearily looked around and gave voice to his confusion with a few choice words.

"Blizbug? Wha' izzit?" he asked, yawning. Harry sleepily noted Neville looking very blurry this morning, when giggles to the left drew his attention. He turned, and Hermione's unfocused face came into view. Harry vigorously rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and clarity returned.

"What?" he asked.

"Breakfast's almost done," said Hermione.

Harry gave his best baleful glare. "I was sleeping."

Hermione didn't seem impressed with the glare. Harry resolved to work on it. "So I noticed," she retorted, "In a plate of eggs."

He turned his attention to the table and found, sure enough, a plate of (admittedly, very comfortable) scrambled eggs. In their center was a vaguely head-shaped impression.

Confronted with the faux pas, Harry's brain rerouted all processing power from such silly things as motor functions to more pressing matters, like Operation Social Salvage. Unfortunately, life with Sherlock Holmes significantly lowered his ability to carry off such an operation. He was still trying to calculate a proper response when Neville unintentionally came to the rescue by giving a small, unobtrusive cough.

Harry immediately swung around and gave his fellow classmate complete and undivided attention. The quick motion seemed to catch Neville off guard. "Yes, Neville? Something you wanted to say? Take your time, Hermione and I give you our full attention."

Hermione gave a lady-like snort. "You can't sidestep a problem just by-"

Harry cut her off with a wave. "Neville speaks."

With a sigh, Hermione relented. She and Harry leaned towards Neville, an action which disconcerted the shy boy, who leaned slightly back. He looked back and forth between his attentive friends (maybe _too_ attentive), and gave another small cough. "Uh, I was just reminding Harry we have Defense after breakfast?"

"Excellent point Neville," said Harry. He nodded his head wisely. "It just wouldn't do to be late, would it? Best be off."

That said, Harry jumped up from the table and strode off in the direction of the Defense classroom, grabbing slices of toast from tables as he went. The toast, to more than one individual's unrest, was pushed down the front of his robe.

"Best be off?" whispered a fifth year to his mate, "Shouldn't be hard. Potter's already off his rocker."

Against that statement, no argument came forth.

-oOo-

Harry was understandably early for class. No matter, he thought. One had to wait either way, but at least in class you didn't have to worry about plates of eggs. He'd washed his face on the way over, but still smelled vaguely delicious, in an eggy sort of way.

Come to think of it, he was certain Gertrude's Grimoire listed odor neutralizing spells. He pulled the library book (and complimentary Gryphon Goggles) from his ever-present mokeskin, deftly donned the eyewear, and began flipping pages.

"Busy, Mr. Potter?"

At the sound of Professor Quirrell's voice, Harry stilled. "That," he thought, "Should not be possible."

To sneak up behind him on a hardwood floor, while wearing long robes, in _perfect silence_ should not have been possible. Sherlock Holmes himself could not have accomplished it. The only possible solution was magic. Not that such explanations did anything to salvage his pride.

Harry turned around, only to be confronted by an enormous eyeball.

...Wait.

He reached up, pulled off the magnification goggles, and sighed with relief. The defense professor stood still, wearing a neutral expression.

Harry nodded in greeting. "Just a bit of reading, Professor."

Quirrell walked to the desk's front, and Harry observed the man _still_ made not the slightest sound. It was as if Quirrell moved about in his own personal vacuum.

Harry was sure the Defense Professor hadn't pulled that trick during their first class, but it was hard to recall at the moment.

"Unusual reading material," said Quirrell.

"How so?" asked Harry, determined to show just how _un_disturbed he was.

"It's not everyday you see students reading Gertrude's Grimoire."

"Can't imagine why. I thought it was brilliant."

Quirrell smirked. "I imagine it has something to do with keeping up one's reputation. Young wizards avoid the book like a plague. Supposedly, only doddering housewives read the Grimoire."

"It does have," Harry pointed out, "Over _one million_ spells."

Quirrell shrugged. "But no dueling spells. Isn't that what the kids are about these days? Dueling?"

"I wouldn't know. Muggleborn, you know."

"Ah, but suppose you had to conjure serpents of living fire to devour your enemies, only to find," Quirrell paused, shaking his head sadly, "That the Grimoire lists no such spell."

"No disrespect, really _really, _no disrespect to people who can cast all-devouring serpents of living fire, but it seems a little...over done."

Quirrell laughed, a sharp sound that reminded Harry of gunshots. "Exactly, Mr. Potter. _Exactly_. You'll find that wizards tend to overdo a lot of things. Duels seem especially prone to that tendency. Thank you for the lesson plan."

"Les-"

A group of students noisily entered the room, and Quirrell started the walk to his podium.

"-son plan?"

The class trickled in, Hermione and Neville sitting as usual, on either side of him. Only after everyone arrived did Quirrell speak. It was then Harry discovered what the professor meant.

"Welcome again to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today's lesson: Dueling."

Unless it was coincidence, which Harry rather doubted, Quirrell was improvising class off the cuff.

"First," said Quirrell, "What exactly _is_ a duel? No need to raise your hand, just shout out an answer."

Harry heard a few chairs scrape in the silence. Someone cleared their throat. Beside him, Hermione squirmed around in her chair. Harry wondered if the no hand raising thing was throwing her off.

Quirrell's look of disappointment was what pushed Hermione over the edge. His look was not of the, "Oh, too bad they're so shy" variety. It seemed to say, "Pity. They're just as pathetic as I imagined."

"A competition," she said, voice ringing out.

"One point to Ravenclaw. Given the apparent reticence, I'll randomly choose students for today's exercise. When called, name the spell for winning a duel scenario of your choice. Starting with you." The professor pointed at the back row.

A brown-haired kid pointed to himself uncertainly. Quirrell nodded, and the kid licked his lips nervously. "Um, the duel. The duel's in a...hallway. Yeah, in one of the hallways, and the spell could be..._expelliarmus_?"

"There we go," said Quirrell, "Not so hard, is it? But please, I'm not asking how you'd conduct _yourself _in a duel. These are hypothetical situations. Impress me. Show some imagination. You, go."

One could not deny the next student's creativity. His example had the loser's wand hand bitten off by a summoned griffon. After that scenario (which elicited a few gasps from the girls, and grins from the boys) the students cut loose, each trying to one-up the previous example. Cages of unbreakable ice, clever illusions, lava pits, and dragons all made appearances.

"Well," said Quirrell, after a dozen students had gone, "I certainly can't fault your imaginations." The professor looked straight at Harry. "Very...impressive. In true wizard about a go, Mr. Potter? Who knows? Maybe you can top everything thus far."

Harry grinned. "The setting is a cauldron shop. The spell is _tractus_."

Though Quirrell's face took on a chiding expression, his eyes sparkled with amusement. The professor waggled an index figure dramatically. _"Tractus_ was not designed to disarm or incapacitate an opponent, Mr. Potter. I believe you're referring to a 'household spell', and one which possesses the approximate inherent lethality of a sponge."

A few students giggled, one or two guffawed.

"Maybe," said Harry, "But it can still pull a cauldron off a shelf. Right onto someone's head."

The professor gave another gunshot laugh. "Another point to Ravenclaw, for exhibiting a core dueling principle. Minimum effort, maximum effect. Duels are not the clean squabbles you read in stories. Before the fight even begins a duelist can be exhausted, injured, outnumbered, or magically impaired in more fashions than I care to list."

Quirrell slapped his podium, hard. "You need to conserve strength whenever possible. Conjuring pits of lava from thin air is all well and good, but banishing a pebble through someone's eye is _considerably_ more cost effective. And now I'm getting ahead of myself. Here I am, talking about spell usage, when the fight," Quirrell placed a finger against his temple, "the _real_ fight, starts right here. Proper assessment of your surroundings and situation is critical. What's the point of being Merlin's gift to magic when you can't notice an ambush or trap?"

"Oh, but Professor!" exclaimed Quirrell in a high, first-yearish voice, "That never happens to anybody!"

Quirrell snorted with derision. "The war was before your time, so I'll excuse your naivete. Allow me to assure in no uncertain terms: It happens."

For a split-second, Harry had the impression of gates slamming shut behind Quirrell's eyes. With a stab, he was suddenly and inexplicably reminded of Sherlock Holmes. Then he blinked, and the gates were gone.

"Be that as it may," said Quirrell, "The majority of you will likely go through life without needing the knowledge you learn in this class. But for those of you who are not comforted by statistics, an after-school extracurricular class is being offered. Sign-up sheets are posted in the Great Hall, and you'll be pleased to know they are exclusively for first-year students."

Quirrell raised a hand to quell the excited chatter. "Before you all stampede to sign up, please be aware of the course load. The extra classes and assignments will be stressful, time-consuming, and take up some of your precious weekend. Serious inquiries only."

-oOo-

To say Harry was shocked was an understatement. If asked what could possibly be done to make Hogwarts even _more_ awesome, his answered would have been instant.

More Quirrell.

Apparently, not everyone agreed.

"Well, I'm kind of behind on my homework _already_, so..."

"What? You want to spend _more _time in a classroom?"

"Nah. Me and my mates have Quidditch after school."

"Um, you _did_ hear him say it would cut into weekends, right?"

In the end, only a handful of first-years signed up for extracurricular defense classes. Hermione (who immediately decided to join) was aghast at her fellow classmates' lack of academic passion. Harry signed up before dinner, and was met by an altogether unexpected surprise. Hastily scrawled at the sign-up sheet's very top, with ink bone dry, was a familiar name.

_Neville Longbottom._


	13. Ch 13, At the Gate

_ When Holmes walked through the door at midnight, I had words of chastisement ready. He knew Harry would not sleep until he bid the boy goodnight. I was sure such late nights were having detrimental effects on the boy's health; lately, he seemed to be getting by on less and less sleep. _

_My reprimands died on seeing Holmes' countenance. Scarcely had I seen my friend so fatigued, or with such dark rings around his eyes. Every movement spoke of bone-deep weariness._

_ Holmes scraped his way to the kitchen and pulled open the door with a terrific effort. He clumsily reached in, all the way to the back, and pulled out a small corked vial. In a thrice he had pulled out the stopper and downed the contents._

_The change that came upon him was extraordinary. No longer was a weary man standing before me. Faint smoke trailed from his ears, and Holmes looked as energetic as I've ever known. He discarded the empty bottle with a cry of delight, and strode back to the front door._

_Before leaving, he turned to me. "Tell Harry to go to bed, I'll be late."_

_The door slammed, footsteps faded, and I stood in bewilderment. Shaking my head in confusion, I moved to the kitchen. On the counter top was the discarded bottle, and its label served only to deepen my confusion._

_Written in Holmes' concise script were two words: "Pepper Up"._

_Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

The sun shone, the morning air was crisp, and Voldemort was seething. He walked through the quaint country town of St. Brusqueby, disdainfully observing the surrounding muggles.

He watched them with poorly concealed distaste. They seemed to scurry around their filthy town like rats in a maze. So busy to lay yet another brick in the putrid house of their pointless little lives. The peons didn't even have the strength of character to walk with heads held high. Most shuffled along with their eyes glued to the ground.

Voldemort picked up the pace. The sooner he was through this horrible hamlet, the better.

So it was that the most powerful Dark Lord of his time peacefully strolled through a picturesque muggle village, wanting nothing more than to _crucio_ everyone in sight. Only after he passed the town limits did Voldemort allow his face to show the full disgust bottled within. He vowed to return one day. On that day, he would burn St. Brusqueby to the ground.

Distracted by such soothing thoughts, Voldemort quickly left the village behind, and soon found himself before a forest edge; the final leg of his journey. He could feel ancient wards set along the forest's perimeter, intricate spells crackling with power. If a muggle came within one hundred yards of these woods, they would find themselves suddenly walking away to do things that desperately needing doing.

From the outside it appeared a forest like any other, but Voldemort was not deceived. He knew it concealed a veritable smorgasbord of deadly denizens, as well it should, with a name like the "Forbidden Forest". If he was successful in passing through, he'd emerge within sight of his goal: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Therein lay the challenge. Navigate the Forbidden Forest. Without magic.

The Dark Lord snarled at a whistling sparrow, startling the bird into flight. When he died in Godric's Hollow, his horcrux-bound soul was scattered on the wind, a mere wraith drifting through the world. In that incomplete form, he carefully constructed his plan for return. In that simple form, his plan seemed so easy and clever. Plant himself in the mind of Sherlock Holmes and strike down the Boy Who Lived.

Only when bound to the host, with full faculties restored, were the scheme's flaws revealed. The most immediate being Harry Potter's absence. It never occurred to his wraith form that school terms were starting. Voldemort raged when he discovered the boy was already at Hogwarts. The spell binding him to Sherlock had been cast at far less than optimal power, and was not permanent. He needed to find the boy, and soon.

As he at the forest's edge, Voldemort felt a small twinge of unease. Walking through harmless hamlets was no problem, but traversing the Forbidden Forest without his magic posed significant challenges, to say the least.

Voldemort took a calming breath, crouch down, and plunged into the tangled tree line. Like a ghost, he slunk from shadow to shadow, slipping ever deeper into the Forbidden Forest.

-oOo-

"Feeling all right there, Neville?"

Harry, Hermione, and a green-faced boy were on their way to Hogwarts' first extracurricular Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Or as the sign-up sheet read, "Intensive Situational Training".

Neville looked as though last night's sleep had come slowly. "I'm fine," he croaked.

Hermione trailed slightly behind, her nose buried in the first year Standard Book of Spells. The turning pages sounded like a papery machine gun.

They reached the Defense classroom's oaken entrance in no time. Harry grasped the handle.

"Ready?" he asked.

Hermione and Neville nodded. Harry cracked the door open and peeked inside. He stared for a moment before withdrawing. He closed the door very softly, stepped back, and looked at the brass room label.

"What's wrong?" asked Hermione.

Neville twitched nervously. "Something bad?"

Harry shook his head. "It's...you have to see it. Come on."

Harry gave another head shake and led them into the Defense classroom. Hermione and Neville stopped halfway inside and gawked. They were not in the familiar defense classroom. They'd entered a comfortably furnished dining room. The Defense Professor was pouring himself a cup of tea at the far side of a banquet table littered with cups and pots.

Quirrell glanced up and set the kettle down. "Please, shut the door."

Hermione did so, and the three students stood uncertainly, looking around the large room with undisguised curiosity.

"Have a seat," said Quirrell, "And feel free to help yourselves while we wait." He gestured to the many teapots and condiments scattered down the table length.

The three sat, and each grabbed a cup and pot.

Harry savored the smell of his choice, freshly brewed Earl Gray. The bergamot infused beverage was a surprisingly kind gesture. Harry paused, the cup inches from his lips. It was a _very _kind gesture, especially coming from the pragmatic professor.

Suspiciously kind.

Harry suspected Sherlock's tests had left a paranoid streak wider than previously thought. Wouldn't Watson laugh, watching him turn down a perfectly good cup of tea?

Still...no harm in checking.

Harry raised the cup to lips and pretended to take a sip, all the while watching Quirrell from the corner of his eye. The professor continued to quietly down his own drink, seemingly oblivious to the attention. Harry was about to chastise himself for excess suspicion when it happened. In between sips, Quirrell glanced at the assembled students. It was a look so brief and subtle that one would miss it by blinking.

Warning bells went off in Harry's head. Thoughts fired at top speed.

Quirrell was watching them, but did not want to be caught doing so. If the professor was engaged in covert surveillance, he was expecting something to happen. The only reasonable action expected would be (as the professor had prompted) for the students to drink the available tea. Ergo, for some unknown reason, Quirrell was observing whether or not they consumed the drinks.

"That," thought Harry, chastising his brain, "Is the most ridiculous line of reasoning I've ever heard." Even so, he put down his cup with tea untouched.

Minutes passed and more students trickled into the Defense Room. All of them were pleasantly surprised with the complimentary beverages.

Finally, the last student arrived, a pale girl with unfocused eyes, as if she was watching something far away. The girl glided in, taken the closest available seat, and helped herself to a sugar cube.

With all students finally present, Quirrell stood. "Welcome to Intensive Situational Training. First order of business. You all fail."

Confused murmurs broke out and the professor held up a hand. "How did you all like the tea? Ms. Granger?" he pointed to Hermione.

"Fine, I guess?"

"Was it poisoned?"

A nervous ripple went through the students, and some pushed away their cups. "Since it's your first time," said Quirrell, "I refrained from drugging the drinks with sleeping drought, a mercy I'll not repeat. Inside this classroom you'll be tested at every moment, in every way. Act accordingly."

"Now", Quirrell clapped his hands together, "On to the main event. As you've noticed, I've taken the liberty of making some minor modifications to the classroom. That door," he waved at a green door to his left, "leads to the rest of the house. Within that house we'll be playing a little game. Here's how it works: Inside three rooms are three 'treasures'. Your objective is to retrieve these treasure and return to the kitchen. My objective is to stop you. Questions?"

Hermione spoke up. "What do mean, 'treasures'?"

Quirrell smiled. "You'll know them when you see them."

"...Alright. Are we going one at time?"

Quirrell shrugged. "All up to you. One at a time, all together, split up, teams. Whatever you think is best. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Going to the green door, Quirrell entered the house proper. He left behind a kitchen of nervous first years.

"So," said Hermione, "Any plans?"

"Yeah," said a brown-haired kid, "The plan's to get a sphere before they're gone."

Hermione didn't approve of snap judgments, but the kid was pushing it. "We'll have a better chance," she said frostily, "If we stick together."

The kid rolled his eyes and walked to the green door. "Yeah, that'll work. A big bunch of kids are just gonna sneak right past him. Good luck with that." The kid cracked open the door and sneaked inside, silently closing the door behind.

Hermione glowered at the green door before speaking again. "Well, any _other_ plans?" No answer came forth, she tried again. "Okay...how about this?" She rummaged in her bag and brought out a quill and parchment. "Who knows any spells that might be useful?"

That question received a more vigorous response. By the time suggestions petered out, Hermione had a more varied list than she'd hoped for. To be sure, not a great list, but better than she expected from a random smattering of first years. The only one who didn't volunteer information was, strangely, Harry Potter.

"Okay, here's what we have," said Hermione, listing a slew of standard first year incantations. Most prominent were children's dueling spells like the Jelly Legs Jinx and tickling charms. Such incantations weren't dangerous, but they could certainly be distracting. For navigation, the _Point Me_ spell could be used as a compass, while generic magic like _Lumos_ rounded out the selection. Hermione's donation was a particularly good one, the lock-opening spell _Alohomora_.

Hermione briefly studied her, and nodded. "Here's what I was thinking. First, we need to divide into groups. We're just first years. Even all together, Professor Quirrell could still beat us. If we go in groups of two, we'll have a better chance to get some treasure out."

"How do we pick groups?" asked Neville.

"Unless you had someone in particular, I thought we should group up to cover each others weak points." Hermione peered at the list again. "It looks like the best pairs would be Susan Bones with Hannah Abbott, Me with Luna, and Harry with Neville. Is that okay?"

The potential partners glanced at each other, and nodded.

Hermione stood determinedly. "Then let's go."


	14. Ch 14, Into the Fire

_One cannot shake the feeling that Holmes, even with all his exposure to its power, deep down deems magic another tool and nothing more. A skilled user of such a tool may certainly gain advantages, and thus cover inherent weaknesses. However, against someone with overwhelming ability, such tools and advantages are crushed beneath the unassailable difference in skill._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

To step beyond the green door was to step into another world. Gone was the dining room and comforting cups of tea. Behind the door was a Gothic monstrosity, filled with vaulted ceilings and tiny twisty hallways. Treacherous floorboards creaked and groaned. The whole place seemed ready to collapse any moment, with sagging walls and thick cobwebs painting a picture of neglect.

However, such details were mostly lost on the students, as the house lacked lighting of any kind.

They were glad for _Lumos._ The spell's small point of light did little in driving off darkness, but was comforting nonetheless. In a place where comfort seemed to have been surgically removed, the jumpy first-years took comfort however they could.

From the kitchen, the group followed the corridor in nervous silence, and soon came to a three-way intersection.

The children paused and looked to Hermione, faces unnaturally pale in the spellight.

"I guess we split up now," whispered Hermione, "Good luck."

Answering whispers of good luck echoed, and six points of light split into pairs. The girl's two groups went left and right, while Harry and Neville pressed forward. With their scant illumination thinly divided, darkness pressed all the closer.

Inside that house, it was very easy to forget the world outside.

-oOo-

Hermione strained her ears, but only heard her own soft footfalls. She and Luna had made their way down the chosen path, all the way to the end, where they found a door.

Hermione glanced up and down the hallway. "Think we should try it?" she whispered.

Luna replied with volume set entirely too high above whisper setting. "Doors are meant to be opened."

Hermione cringed, bringing a finger to her lips. "Shhhh!"

Luna mimicked the gestured, and nodded solemnly.

To one girl's dismay, the door opened with heart-stopping creaks. Hermione thrust her brightly glowing wand into the room, half-expecting Professor Quirrell to jump out at any moment.

A tense second passed, no turbaned teacher sprang from the darkness, and Luna Lovegood skipped into the room.

"Luna!" hissed Hermione, stepping quickly to her partner's side, "Stay together."

The flighty first-year pointed to a trunk at the room's center. A pale purple light poured from the keyhole.

"That," said Luna, "Is a treasure chest." She pounced, and opened the lid in a flash.

Hermione had to concur with her companion's assessment. Inside the trunk, gently glowing, was a crystal sphere. She was just starting to think Quirrell's game wasn't all that bad when the door slammed shut.

-oOo-

Hannah Abbott was not a brave girl. She didn't like spiders, camping trips, or being the center of attention. And now she knew that she _definitely_ didn't like wandering around in the dark.

If she were walking any closer to her partner, Susan Bones, she would be riding piggyback.

In contrast, Susan walked with purpose, eyes determined and head held high. She didn't care for the decayed decor, but a challenge was a challenge. If Quirrell thought he could scare her with his creepy old house, he had another thing coming.

The pair made their slow, silent way, until at last they came to a wooden door at the corridor's end.

"Okay," said Susan, "You open, and I'll go first."

Hannah nodded, eyes like saucers, and grabbed the doorknob.

Susan nodded. "Do it fast."

Hannah yanked the door open with a burst of panicked energy, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Susan charged past with a yell. Then the cry of defiance changed. It was a scream now, and lasted until it was cut off like a snuffed candle.

Hannah licked her lips, and tried to force words around the sudden lump in her throat. "Susan?" Heart pounding, she peeked around the door frame.

Susan lay face down on the floor. Hannah took an involuntary step towards the girl, only to freeze at the rustle of robes. She turned her head to the sound, and could just make out...something in the far corner.

She pointed a shaking wand at the corner. "L-lumos."

Hannah Abbott turned and ran. She was halfway out the door before she realized the sudden screams were coming from _her_, and one step down the hallway before something hit her in the back.

-oOo-

"Did you hear that?" asked Neville.

Harry paused, and tilted his head. "Hear what?"

"You didn't hear a scream? I thought I heard a scream."

Harry sighed. His plan for this exercise had not gone of well. It hadn't even got on the runway, let alone out of the hangar.

He had fully expected Hermione's two-by-two plan to disintegrate upon entering the house proper, then he could strike off on his own in a socially acceptable way. Alas, the design of this house (if you could call it that) seemed to support her plan. In fact, it necessitated group, with its ridiculous three-way intersection. And so far, not a door to be found!

Like it or not, for the time being it appeared he was stuck with Neville. The other boy was no detective, but Harry tried to minimize his damage to their goal. Namely, he called the shots. Not a hard thing to do, given Neville's personality- the boy seemed relived to have a clear leader.

First and foremost was stealth. Harry showed Neville how to shield his wand tip to only let the barest chinks of light shine through, and whenever they came to a corner, he'd order lights off. Neville would wait for Harry to sneak around the corner, and listen for a quiet double-tap- the signal to recast _lumos_ and continue.

The system worked well enough, and the going was uneventful. Harry periodically used his Midas Sight, but no clues revealed themselves. All the could do was continue walking single-file, onwards to whatever awaited them.

Which turned out to be, much to Harry's disappointment, an ordinary wooden door.

"Lights." whispered Harry, dousing his _lumos _spell. Neville followed suit and the pair were plunged into darkness.

Harry turned the doorknob with agonizing slowness, annoyed when a faint click betrayed the action. He gently opened the door, and looked inside. From the relative safety of the passage, he saw a shelf against the room's far wall. On it was a faintly glowing sphere.

Harry rolled his eyes. If that wasn't a trap, he didn't know what was. He thought for a moment. Too far away for tractus...

Neville shifted beside him, and Harry paused to consider the boy. An idea began to form. He blindly reached out, felt for Neville's cranium, and whispered a plan into the boy's ear.

Harry supposed a partner could be useful, after all.

-oOo-

Neville didn't like the plan, but he disliked arguing against it even more. And it's not like he had a better one, was it? He made his way through the ramshackle room, step by slow, cautious step, towards the sphere. Every sense strained to detect the slightest hint of danger. It took him nearly a full minute to cross the room thus, stopping with baited breath every time the house creaked, before he could reach up and take the sphere from it's shelf.

"You're late." The voice was low, distorted. It came from behind him, from a corner on the other side of the room.

Neville jerked around. He dropped the sphere and raised his wand.

The person- Quirrell, presumably- silently shielded, bathing the room in softest light_. "_When you're ready, Long-"

"Tractus."

Neville and Quirrell watched as the sphere shot forward. It rolled across the room, out the door and into the darkness beyond. Footsteps were heard pounding away from the room. Quirrell had time for one step in pursuit before Neville shut his eyes and shouted a spell.

"Lumos!" He poured every ounce of magic he had into the spell, and in the dark room, his wand seemed a small sun.

Turning away with a hiss, a hand thrown over his eyes too late, Quirrell blindly thrust out his wand. Neville fell to the floor, like a puppet with cut strings, and the room fell back into darkness.

By now, Harry Potter's fleeing footsteps were beginning to fade. Quirrell violently shook his head before giving chase.

-oOo-

One half of Harry's brain chastised him for using Neville as cannon fodder. The other half told him to stop thinking and run faster.

Harry skidded around a corner and nearly lost his balance. He tore through the hallway at breakneck speed. Breath came in ragged gasps as lungs and legs demanded oxygen, but Harry grit his teeth and picked up the pace.

Behind him, footsteps thundered.

Harry turned another corner, and could see the kitchen door's outline. He dared a glance behind.

Quirrell, or what Harry hoped was Quirrell, was gaining. The professor wore tattered robes and a mask. In his outstretched hand was a leveled wand.

The wand flicked and Harry threw himself to the side, feeling a spell sizzle past his ear. His evasion caused his to hit the wall hard. With a fatalistic detachment, he noted Quirrell's wand hadn't stopped flicking.

The first spell blinded, the second deafened, the third bound him in chains. The forth came, and the world went black.

-oOo-

Harry's eyes cracked open. He saw a wooden ceiling bathed in warm, comforting light. All in all, he felt remarkably fine, considering the spells he took. He sat up and looked around, unsurprised to be back in the kitchen, where class had begun.

Lined in a row behind him were the other students, all sleeping off various spell effects. Quirrell sat at the table, reading a copy of the Dailey Prophet. Gone were the tattered robes and black mask. He saw Harry rise, and set the paper aside.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Potter."

Harry walked over and sat. "Did anyone get out?"

Quirrell smirked. "No. And now, debriefing." He waved his wand at the unconscious students. "Enervate."

As one, the first-years' eyes snapped open. The group sat up and looked around in mild bewilderment.

"Gather round, gather round," said Quirrell, "It's time to see what we learned."

The students stumbled over seated themselves, some moving more groggily than others.

Another wave of Quirrell's wand and a tea set appeared. "This time I give my word, it's just tea."

After a few wary glances, the students began pouring drinks. The hot beverage quickly worked its magic, and they were soon back to full alertness.

"Fortunately," said Quirrell, "You won't have formal grades. Just a little discussion on how you did."

Quirrell gestured at a student. Harry recognized the obstinate boy who left on his own. Where had he been, anyway?

"Zacharias Smith," said Quirrell, "Admirable ambition, but repeat the mistake of thinking you can beat me on your own. It's insulting."

Zacharias looked down with ill-concealed ire. The boy had trouble remembering where in the house he'd been hit; he never saw it coming.

Quirrell turned to Susan. "I know bravery is your house trait, Miss Bones, but a modicum of caution is recommended, especially when facing the unknown. And you, Miss Abbott, may want to entertain more...considered retreats."

Susan and Hannah blushed, and each resolved to scream less next time.

Quirrell turned to regard the second pair of girls. "Granger and Lovegood...Miss Lovegood, you seem well-served by intuition and courage, but need to remember: distraction can mean death on the battlfield."

For a brief moment, Luna lost her _un_focus, and nodded.

Hermoine glared at the the professor. "You don't have to try and scare her!"

"On the contrary," said Quirrell, "I think I do. And as for you, Miss Granger, raw intelligence only benefits from spontaneity and improvisation. You and Lovegood would each do well to learn from the other."

"You locked the door on us!" exclaimed Hermione. "What did you want from me?"

"Escape," said Quirrell, as if it were the most obvious thing in the word.

"I tried _alohomora_, it didn't work."

"Probably because I warded the lock."

Hermione eyes narrowed, and the professor smugly continued. "Relax, Miss Granger. There's always next time. Besides," he waved a hand dismissively, "A muggle could have escaped that room."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I'm eleven. You expected me to pick the lock?"

"Nothing so dramatic. The door hinges were on the inside. All you had to do was knock them out, and the door would fall open."

Hermione furiously tried to recall the room she'd been trapped in.

"Finally," said Quirrell, "We have one point- the only point- to Longbottom, for calmly executing a plan."

The students turned disbelieving eyes towards a blushing Neville.

When he next spoke, Quirrell did not even look at Harry. "And you, Mr. Potter, perhaps next time you'll have something better than a slip-shod plan with no chance of success."

Harry kept his face neutral.

"Take a tip," said Quirrell, "United they conquer, divided they fall. You've one week before our next class, don't waste it." The professor stood, crossed to the classroom entrance and opened the door. "Dismissed."


	15. Ch 15, PigeonHoled

_In later years, my nephew would confide the experience to be a turning point in his perception, not only of himself, but also of those around him. It was the first time in the boy's young life when the skills he so painfully nurtured had failed so utterly._

_Raised by a man who prized independent strength so highly, Harry found his Professor's words all the more foreign._

_United they stand, divided they fall. Strange words indeed to one raised by Sherlock Holmes. Failure though, is a bitter tonic, and one he was not intent on tasting soon again._

_Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

"Well," said Harry, "I think we can all agree that was a little pathetic."

The seven students left the Defense classroom in single file, and winced as the door slammed shut with a depressing air of finality. They turned to Harry and nodded or shrugged in varying degrees of embarrassed acceptance. All but one.

Zacharias crossed his arms and sneered. "Yeah? Well I didn't hear Quirrell singing your praises, Potter. What'd you do, anyway? Stand back and let Longbottom do all the work?"

Pretty much, thought Harry. "Actually," he said, "Neville did a bang up job. He distracted the professor and gave me a chance to make a break with the treasure."

Zacharias let out a short, crowing laugh. "So you ran! Is that it?"

"What do you want, Zack? Want me to take a leaf from your book? Just charge in and take Quirrell out? In case you haven't noticed, we're first-years and he's a Defense Professor."

As he spoke, Harry saw resignation start to bleed into the student's faces, Hermione's in particular. "Listen," he said, "Inside that house Quirrell holds all the cards. Cheap spell tricks won't cut it. He doesn't even need the counter-spell, for crying out loud! Quirrell's got enough power to outright cancel anything we cast."

Harry shook his head. "Even if you get a sphere you've only got one option. Run. That's it. Not that it makes a difference with that floor plan. With those tiny hallways, he doesn't even have to chase you, he's got an easy shot right at your back."

"Then how are we supposed to win?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah!" said Susan, "He's cheating!"

"I don't know about cheating," said Harry, "But I do know he doesn't want us to keep losing. It's like any other test. He doesn't _want_ us to fail, he wants us to _learn_."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.

"I mean he already told us how to win this."

Zacharias pierced the first-years' excitement with a scoff. "Yeah?" he asked, hands on hips, "Then why don't you let us in on it?"

"United they stand," replied Harry, "That's what he said. As if that house plan wasn't enough of a hint, he flat out gave us the clue to beating him. We just have to work together." Harry gave Zacharias a deliberate look. "A_ll_ of us."

Zacharias rolled his eyes, but couldn't stifle his curiosity, or his want to win. "So...you got a plan?"

"I'll work something out tonight," answered Harry, "Tomorrow after dinner we'll all meet in the library to look it over. See if it needs any adjustments. We can use that big table by the back."

Zacharias slouched away, speaking over his shoulder. "I'm a little too old for play dates, Potter." He turned a corner and was gone.

Hermione practically had steam coming from her ears. "That...that boy is absolutely insufferable! How is _he_ supposed to be Hufflepuff?"

"We're all embarrassed," said Harry, "He just lets it show more." He turned to Susan and Hannah. "You two will come, right?"

Hannah looked down and nodded. Susan playfully slapped his shoulder, hard enough to elicit a wince. "We'll be there!" she said. "We first-years gotta stick together, right?" Susan pulled Hannah off in the direction of the Great Hall, and waved goodbye. "See ya' then!"

Harry rubbed his sore shoulder as the remaining students waved back, then turned to Luna.

"And you?"

Luna gently poked his shoulder. "You should be careful, scabtruckles are attracted to wounded celebrities."

Harry waited for the joke's punch line. It didn't come.

"But yes," she continued, "I'll be sure to join you tomorrow. I've always wanted to plot someone's downfall."

"Uh...actually, 'plot' might be a little-"

But Luna was already gone. Harry, Neville, and Hermione watched her slight form fairly glide up a staircase.

Harry cleared his throat and faced his companions. "So, lunch?"

The two nodded, and they all set off. Hermione trailed slightly behind, wearing a look of bewilderment.

"Something wrong, Hermione?" asked Harry.

The girl was chewed her lower lip. "It's Luna."

"What about her?"

Hermione sighed with exasperation. She pointed to the staircase her flighty partner had taken. "Just to be clear, the Professor wants me to be more like _that?_"

Harry's laughter echoed through the empty hallway.

-oOo-

The Boy Who Lived spent the remainder of the day in the library, alone with his thoughts. He enjoyed working in that there, surrounded by words of wizard's long past. Sometimes he imagined their voices as whispers that slipped from between the pages.

At least, he thought they were imagined, it was hard to tell at Hogwarts.

Before him was a piece of parchment. On it, to the best of his knowledge, was a simple blueprint of the house in which Quirrell tested the Defense Club. The details weren't exact, but that was expected from working with second-hand knowledge.

Harry had questioned Hermione first, and then Susan about the respective routes they'd each taken. He was pleasantly surprised by the amount his classmates remembered. From there, it had been simple to devise a plan. He was confident with the cooperation of seven people, the retrieval of at least one sphere was nearly guaranteed.

Professor Quirrell had clearly designed that house with a winning scenario, Harry was sure of it. It was too simple, and seemed custom-tailored for the amount of students. Whatever the case, Quirrell could not be everywhere at once. With that knowledge, Harry slept easy.

-oOo-

The next day was standard fare, but for a minor incident in Herbology class.

"The key is not to frighten them. If they're scared, don't be surprised if they try to take a bite of your fingers."

Harry paid close attention as Professor Sprout nimbly maneuvered food into the plant's "mouth". The day's lesson revolved around a carnivorous plant commonly known as the Peruvian Pixie Trap. The professor stood next to the moderately sized shrub, carefully placing bits of raw meat into a flattened maw that sprouted from the top.

"Now," said Sprout, "Have a go, and remember! Nice, slow movements."

Harry looked into his bucket of raw meat, wondering exactly how this factored into his education. He looked at his two greenhouse partners. Neville looked oddly at ease, while Hermione stared sickly at the pail of meat.

The girl nervously chattered and kept a close eye on the nearest plant, which seemed to be showing her an unusual amount of interest. "We have to use our hands? Why don't we have gloves? Isn't that unsanitary? How hard can they bite, anyway?" She looked at her finger with newfound protectiveness.

Harry was mildly surprised when Neville plunged his hand into the meat bucket. The squelchy sounds turned Hermione a faint shade of green. When he pulled out a bloody chunk of something (organ, Harry thought), she turned away with a retch.

"You okay?" asked Harry.

Hermione nodded, and took deep breathe before turning back. She was just in time to see the Pixie Trap snap down on the proffered meat. Blood spattered onto Neville's face, and the boy watched in undisguised wonder as the plant happily munched away.

Another retch, and Hermione bolted from the greenhouse with a hand clamped over her mouth.

The plant settled down with a content rustle and Neville turned around, grinning widely. "Where'd Hermione go?" he asked, glancing around, "Wasn't she just here?"

Harry coughed and hid his smile behind a hand. "She'll be back in a minute. Wasn't feeling well."

Neville nodded, grabbed another piece of meat, and moved on to another Pixie Trap.

Through the glass Harry could see the distant form of Hermione Granger. She strode determinedly (if a bit wobbly), and looked considerably paler. She walked through the greenhouse doors and fixed the nearest plant with a death-glare. That particular plant was, in fact, a perfectly ordinary shrub.

-oOo-

Before he knew it, the day was over, and Harry pushed away his dinner plate with a smack of the lips. Hogwarts certainly pulled no punches when it came to feeding it's ravenous student hoards. Harry eyed a dish of chilled caviar, surprised yet again by how ill-suited much of the cuisine seemed for small children. Foe Gras, perhaps, but not a single plate of macaroni and cheese in sight.

Beside him, Neville also pushed his plate away. Hermione had finished long ago, content with a light supper after the horrors of Herbology.

"Ready?" asked Harry, glancing at each of his associates.

Neville took a last swig of pumpkin juice. "Yep."

"Then off we go," said Harry, stepping away from the table, "To plan and plot."

Neville followed with a grin. Hermione brought up the rear with a roll of her eyes.


	16. Ch 16, The Plot

_Due to forces beyond his control, a man of great skill may be brought low. But if he is truly at the peak of said skill, such a man may then devise the perfect counter._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

If anyone thought the headmaster looked more tired than usual that evening, none decided to voice their thoughts. Albus Dumbledore quietly sat in the center of the staff table, not doing much of anything. His twinkling eyes had faded to a dim luster; dark rings encircled them, though none could see, hidden as they were by minor glamours.

It had been many years since Dumbledore had slept the easy, carefree sleep of the young and unburdened. For him, slumber came grudgingly, often only by the aid of potions. Too many thoughts, that was the problem. A brain that refused to shut off.

Lately, his mind tended to turn to _that_ night. The night he cast the Killing Curse. Again and again he saw it re-play. He even dreamed of it, the small cottage on the edge of Godric's Hollow, and the death of Tom Riddle.

But even as the deed was shamefully recalled, he continued to churn and process. Wasn't it strange, the way Tom had died? In every instance Dumbledore could recall, the Killing Curse acted instantly. It was not a dramatic spell. Once hit, a victim did not die an actor's death. There was no last breath. A man hit by _avada kedavra_ simply and suddenly ceased to live.

Yet Voldemort did not. After he was hit by the fatal spell, he had _turned _and faced his murderer. As morally horrifying the act remained, Dumbledore could not deny the scholarly allure of such an unusual occurrence. It implied new aspects to the Unforgivable Curse; a field of study hideously hampered by ethical and legal restraints. As it was, Dumbledore contented himself with a likely hypothesis.

Like most emotion-based magic, intent was the driving force behind a Killing Curse. Without wishing a target dead, from the very bottom of your heart, the incantation would fail. Intellectually, Dumbledore had known Voldemort needed to die, but to act on that knowledge was something else entirely. Even as he cast the spell which saved England during its darkest hour, the headmaster could clearly and regretfully remember the young, idealistic student, Tom Riddle.

"...don't you think so, Albus?"

Dumbledore shook himself from his reverie, and looked to his left. McGonagall was watching him expectantly. One answer later he found himself getting quickly sucked into the surrounding conversation, but did not fail to notice Harry Potter leaving the Great Hall with friends close behind.

The Boy Who Lived had friends, then. Dumbledore did not know whether to be happy, sad, or indifferent to this development. With a small inward cringe, he found himself wishing the boy would be more withdrawn. Colder. That would be things easier for everyone. He could imagine the future waiting for Longbottom and the Granger girl. Anyone who stood by Harry would see pain. They would see war. And Voldemort would not hesitate to strike and use anyone at Harry's side.

Dumbledore sighed. He knew, that future was coming soon, and yet...

He watched as the trio slipped out of the great hall. Off to mischief, if their faces were anythign to go by. Dumbledore smiled softly. The boy seemed happy. That was good.

Wasn't it?

-oOo-

Harry, Hermione and Neville entered the library, drew a piercing glare from the librarian, Madam Pince, and made their way to a large table near the back.

Neville sat and glanced over his shoulder. "Does she look at everyone like that?"

"You get used to it," answered Harry. He reached down the front of his robes and pulled out a rolled parchment, spreading it over the table. The corners, to Hermione's protest, were tacked in place.

"Don't worry," said Harry, making sure the tack had set properly, "I'll fix it later."

Hermione drummed her fingers on the tabletop, and nervously looked over her shoulder. "You know a spell to refinish furniture?"

Harry again reached down the front of his robes. "I'll look one up while we wait for the others." He pulled a massive book from his neckline and set it down with a decisive thump.

Hermione looked from the book to Harry's robes and back again.

Neville held up a hand and shook his head. "Waitwaitwait. You have a mokeskin?"

Harry grinned as Hermione sidled closer and tried to read the book's title. "Yep."

"It's a pretty good one to fit something that big."

Harry fingered the pouch around his neck. "That's what McGonagall said. We found it in my family vault. It and my trunk."

Neville nodded and Hermione slid the book towards her. "Gertrude's Grimoire," she read, tracing the title. "Does Hogwarts have a copy?"

Neville leaned towards the now open book. "You're reading Gertrude's?"

"Problem?" asked Harry.

"No. Just, not a lot of kids..."

"Read old lady books?"

Neville gave a weak smile and shrugged. "Well, yeah."

Hermione interrupted, words thick with disbelief. "Rugs?" She flipped through the book. "How can you have whole chapter about _rugs_?"

"I know," said Harry. "Isn't it great?"

Hermione didn't notice his endorsement, and flipped pages faster and faster. "How to change rug colors. How to change rug weave styles. Change stitch styles. Change texture. Clean. Charm. Repair. Shrink. Tassels. Bells?" She shut the book loudly. "This thing is useless! Why do I need a rug with _bells?_"

Harry pulled the insulted book into his arms and gave it a pat of appreciation.

"What about rug bells?" asked a voice.

The three students turned and saw Luna Lovegood emerge from behind a nearby bookcase. The girl sat next to Hermione and fixed Harry with a serious look. "I've always wanted a rug with little bells around the edges."

Hermione scooched her chair over. Luna had sat down close enough to brush shoulders. "Whatever for?" she asked warily.

Luna folded her arms onto the table and rested her head on them. "I always liked those little bells shops have over the doors. You know, to let them know when someone comes in. I wanted to put one on my bedroom door, but it seemed a bit tacky."

Hermione nodded. She could understand that. A great big bell over your door did seem a little overdone. Her eyes traveled down Luna's neck, noticing the unusual jewelry around it.

_Very_ unusual, thought Hermione. She peered closer. Was that necklace made from _bottle caps_?

Tacky indeed.

"...So of course that was out of the question." said Luna, recapturing Hermione's attention. "I thought it'd make a good compromise. Little bells going all the way around the edge." The girl outlined an imaginary rug in the air.

Harry slowly nodded. "I'll write down the spell for you."

Luna beamed. "That's very kind."

Neville and Hermione were struggling to think of some polite comment for the conversation, when more arrivals made themselves known.

Susan and Hannah emerged from an aisle and approached the group with small waves of greeting. Hannah walked behind her partner, casting worried looks over her shoulder towards the librarian's desk.

Susan plopped down at the table and draped an arm over her chair back. She nodded around at the seated students and made room for Hannah to sit next her. "Are we late?"

Harry nodded back. "Hey Susan, Hannah. No, your not late. We're still waiting for our last- oh, never mind."

Everyone turned and saw Zacharias slouch up the table. He chose a seat away from the other students and tipped the chair back onto two legs. "So, Potter, what's the master plan?"

Harry pulled a pen from his robes. "It's nice to see you too, Zack." Zacharias gave a small snort.

Harry continued. "I'm sure we all have things to do, so I'll keep this brief." He tapped his pen onto the parchment tacked to the table. "This is a rough blueprint of the place we were tested in. With it, I thought of a plan that should net us one sphere, at the very least."

Susan rubbed her hands together. "That's what I'm talking about," she chortled. "Let's hear it. Some kind of cool magic?"

Harry grinned. "Nope." He ignored the looks of confusion and rapidly outlined his plan, marking and labeling points on the map as he spoke. "The plan is simple and utilizes minimal magic. Main point: Quirrell is one person, we are seven. The idea is to distribute ourselves throughout the house in a synchronized, coordinated movement. We'll move out in an initial group, and place people at intervals through the hallways as we move. One person stays in the kitchen as a reserve, one stays in the hallway outside the kitchen door, and another at the intersection; these people are called Anchors. The rest split into pairs and take the three hallways; these people are Agents."

Harry pointed to a hallway on the map. "This is the northern corridor, the one me and Neville took last time. It's approximately twice as long as the others. One person needs to wait halfway down it while their partner goes ahead. The east and west halls only need one Agent each."

Harry glanced around the table, making sure everyone was following, and continued. "The weak point is the intersection. If the Anchor at the intersection is removed, whoever's at the kitchen door should move forward to take his place. The reserve then takes the kitchen door spot."

Hermione raised her hand. "I understand, but why do we need to leave people spaced out like that? At the intersection and the door and everywhere?"

"Because," said Harry, "You can throw a ball faster than you can run. If you're being chased you throw the sphere down the hallway to the intersection Anchor, they throw it to the Anchor outside the kitchen door, and he tosses it inside. Same thing with the northern corridor. Whoever retrieves the sphere can throw it to his partner down the hallway, who throws it to the intersection and so on."

Zacharias rolled his eyes. "What a _muggle_ plan. Sounds like you'll all be playing cricket in the dark."

Harry didn't look at Zack. "Then I'm sure you won't mind being the reserve, Zacharias." Ignoring the Zack for the moment, Harry addressed the rest of the table. "The whole plan relies on speed. You have to move fast enough that Quirrell only has time to stop one or two of us before someone gets a sphere through. If he keeps to the same pattern as last time, we should make it."

Harry reached into his robe, pulled out six pieces of parchment, and handed them around the table. "Everyone take a map, and we can decide the roles."

After a few minutes of conversation, Harry marked down everyone's assignment on his own map, un-tacked it, and rolled it up. "We've got a few days before the next test, so try to memorize the map and your task."

Susan pumped her hand in the air. "This time Quirrell's going down!"

"Ahem."

Susan turned, hand still thrust in the air, and beheld a very irate librarian. Madam Pince tapped her toe, drumming a beat that reminded Harry of an executioner's drum roll.

She leveled a icy glare at the assembled students. "I think," she growled, "That overly-boisterous plots can be planned elsewhere."

Harry noticed Luna's lip twitch upward, and recalled her comment from two day's ago. He looked up at the glowering matron, "I wouldn't it a _plot, _per_-_"

Before his defense was properly voiced, the Boy Who Lived was dragged away by a gaggle of cowed first-years.


	17. Ch 17, Second Chances

_Not all of Harry's letters were a source of joy for me. Early on, it was made clear one Professor Snape had sank below the standards of behavior. As a professional who often dealt with children, I was appalled, and prepared a letter for the headmaster forthwith. I was fully intent on sending my scathing missive when the mail owl next arrived._

_Holmes, to my surprise, objected._

_ "If I," said he, "Acted against every man and woman who bore me hatred, I should never rest. I've found such ones best left alone. Hostility ignored may smolder in dormancy, but attention often stirs emotion to fullness."_

_In the end, it was not delivered, but I still have the letter._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

Hogwarts on the weekend was a different beast. Gone were the hoards rushing from class to class. Students and teachers alike unwound from the long week, recharging before the inevitable return to academia. Younger kids played around the lake, skipping rocks and hoping for a glance of Hogwarts' giant squid. On the pitch, impromptu games of snitchless quidditch wiled away hours for older students. Activities varied as wildly as the students themselves.

Why, a few were even getting ready for a synchronized assault.

-oOo-

Harry Potter marched towards the Defense classroom and mentally reviewed the plan of action. It was a simple plan, but he been taught the merits of simplicity long ago. As he laid his hand upon the classroom door, some of Sherlock's words came to mind, like a cork bobbing from the depths of memory.

"_With excess power or ability, it becomes easy to seek the most complex solution, even when the simple solution suits best_."

Harry opened the door, entered the classroom-turned-kitchen, and noted he was last to arrive. He acknowledged murmured greetings with a curt nod. The first-years sat once again at a table laid with tea. Harry joined them, and observed none of the cups had been touched. After Quirrell's last introduction, paranoia seemed to have taken a swift grip on the student's minds.

Harry clasped his hands together and looked around the table. The first-years looked back with faces tinged by an underlying excitement.

"Ready?" asked Harry.

Everyone nodded. They'd all gone over the plan, carefully memorized their roles, and were to redeem their previous, paltry attempt.

Harry stood. "Then let's move out."

They walked to the green door as one, orderly and single-file. Harry grasped the doorknob. "On three," he said, "One..."

Luna tapped her necklace, nails beating a mini drumroll.

"Two."

Neville reminded himself to breathe. His heart felt like a Golden Snitch trying to escape his chest.

"Three!"

Harry threw open the door and careened down the corridor. Behind him, footsteps pounded. At the intersection, Susan screeched to a stop, Hermione ran down the left hallway, and Hannah swerved down the right. Harry and Neville ran straight on through the northern corridor. As the pair drew close to the halfway point, Harry slowed to a jog before stopping, and watched his partner continue to sprint full speed into the gloom.

-oOo-

Neville panted like a dog. His arms burned, his legs burned, his lungs burned, even the sweat dripping into his eyes burned.

But he kept running.

Over and over, Harry had said the plan relied on speed. The faster they moved, the better their chances. They weren't outfighting the professor, he reminded them, they were outmaneuvering him. Neville gulped another breath of stale air and continued to ignore the fire in his limbs. Even at the hallways end, faced with a closed door, he slowed only slightly. Never stopping, he reaching out mid-step, violently twisted the doorknob, and slammed the entrance open with enough force to knock dust from the doorframe.

He didn't even spare time to examine the familiar, untidy room. He bolted to the far wall, scooped the glowing sphere off the shelf, thrust it into his pocket, spun on his heel...

And froze.

The doorway was blocked by a man draped in tattered robes. His face was hidden by a dark mask, and from behind that mask came a voice, scratchy and distorted. It was Quirrell.

"You're early."

Neville swallowed and took a single step backwards. "Why is it always me?" he thought. Flashes of his last encounter with the Defense Professor came and went. Quirrell outclassed them all in every way_._

During their planning, Harry had offered one piece of advice, before all others. Neville remembered it clearly. _"If you meet Quirrell, try to make it last. Do the unexpected, and try to buy the rest of the team as much time as possible."_

Neville's eyes darted around the cluttered room and settled on a rickety footstool. Still gasping for air, and heart somehow beating faster than ever, Neville lunged for the stool and raised it above his head.

Quirrell gave his wand a lazy wave, and the stool turned to sawdust.

"Unusual tactic," said the professor, "But too slow."

Neville lowered his arms and looked at his hands in shock. Grasped in each were the small remainders of his improvised weapon. He gamely chucked the furniture remains at Quirrell's head, but was suited more as a gardener than gladiator. One piece hit the wall. The other impacted the ceiling.

Quirrell shook his head, sighed, and extended his wand. "_Accio_ wand." Even as the spell snatched the wand from Neville's grasp, Quirrell was moving.

Later, Neville would find it impossible to pinpoint the exact moment of contact. One moment Quirrell was lunging across the room, and the next moment he was on his back with the Defense Professor standing over him.

"Disappointing," said Quirrell. "Surely, your parents must have raised you better than this?"

Neville clenched a fist and threw it at professor's face. Quirrell laughed and swayed backwards, just out of range.

Then Neville opened his hand, and slung sawdust into Quirrell's eyes.

The professor snapped up, shook his head, and ceased laughing. "Better," he shook hi shead again, "Improvise with what's at hand."

Neville was still flat on his back, but he kicked out anyway, aiming between the professor's legs.

Quirrell moved like a viper, and caught his ankle in an iron grip. "That's enough," he said, and leveled his wand at Neville. "A decided improvement, Mr. Longbottom. Goodnight."

-oOo-

Too long, thought Harry.

How many minutes had it been now? Neville should have been back before now. Only one thing, or one _person_, could be keeping him occupied. If that was the case, it was time to go.

Harry turned and jogged back towards the intersection. Soon he made out the telltale glow of Susan's wand, and approached her.

"Is everyone out?" he asked.

Susan nodded. "You just missed Hermione and Hannah. We're waiting on you guys." She looked over Harry's shoulder. "Trouble?"

"Probably," Harry gave the northern corridor a long look before finally shaking his head. "We should go."

"But, what about Neville?"

Harry was already moving back towards the kitchen. "He's not making it."

-oOo-

Zacharias grinned like a Cheshire cat. "So let me get this straight. You just left him?"

The first-years crowded around Harry and peppered the boy with questions. Only Luna stayed at the table, as she languidly spun two glowing spheres.

Hermione frowned. "You didn't even check on him?"

Harry shook his head and poured a cold cup of tea from the table set. "He was late, and it was time to pull out."

The first-years speculated and guessed at Neville's fate. Zacharias in particular seemed to enjoy considering the many ways Quirrell could truss Neville up. Harry ignored them, waved his wand over his teacup, and took a small sip.

Hermione saw him drink and surged forward, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't drink it! Don't you remember what Quirrell said?"

Everyone quieted and waited to see if the Boy Who Lived keeled over. Harry continued to sip.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Explain."

Another sip. "Explain what?"

"_Explain_."

Harry shrugged. "It's just a filter spell."

"For poison?"

"For water."

Susan scratched her head. "Still needing an explanation here."

Harry set his cup down. "The spell is designed for making clean drinking water. It removes anything classified as an impurity." He frowned at his cup. "Unfortunately, it appears tea is categorized as such." Harry tilted his cup, revealing not tea, but clear water.

"What happens if you cast it on a person?"

Five sets of eyes turned to stare. The attention didn't faze Luna Lovegood in the slightest.

Harry swallowed, did his best to forget humans were eighty percent water, and carefully concealed his unease. Hermione's response was more externalized. She looked horrified.

"I'll ask a professor," said Harry.

"Ask me what?"

Professor Quirrell stepped through the green door, levitating Neville behind him. The professor placed the unconscious student in a seat, posed the boy as one would a doll, then seated himself.

"Ask me what?" Quirrell repeated.

Harry glanced at Luna. "We were wondering what happens if you cast _aquius purificus_ on a person."

The professor shrugged. "The purifying spell? Nothing. _Purificus_ requires line-of-sight to cast. You have to be _looking_ at water, or something very close to water."

Harry let out a very quiet, very relieved breath.

"Now, said Quirrell, "If we've had enough fun contemplating spell lethality, it's time to move on," he pointed his wand at the comatose Neville, "_Enervate._"

Neville's eyes shot open, and he almost fell sideways out his chair. He caught himself and looked around the table with a small grin. "Did we win?"

Quirrell tapped the table, drawing everyone's attention. "That depends. If you don't forget the lesson, then yes, you win."

Wide smiles split the student's faces, and Quirrell continued. "You outmaneuvered a superior opponent with speed and numbers. Congratulations on a well-executed plan." Quirrell nodded solemnly and ignored Susan's attempts to high-five everyone. "You'll be happy, I'm sure, to know the next test will be in a new environment."

Harry's suspicions were confirmed. The house had been designed from the ground up, after all, to teach a specific lesson.

Quirrell gave a casual, two-fingered salute. "Dismissed."

The group of first-years leaked from the classroom, talking amongst themselves about next weeks "new environment". Harry remained seated. When Neville shot him a questioning look, he nodded towards the professor.

"I'll catch up later."

Neville shrugged and continued on his way. As the door shut, Quirrell leaned back in his seat.

"Question, Mr. Potter?"

Harry nodded, and turned his inquiry around in his head.

"While we're young, then."

"Sorry," said Harry, "I'm not sure if you'll like the question."

Quirrell raised an eyebrow. "Just ask, and if I don't answer, don't ask again."

"Fair enough. So...why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

Harry gestured broadly, taking the kitchen. "All of it. The defense club. You don't seem the type for it, and it makes me curious, is all."

"Oh? And what type do I seem?"

Harry shrugged. "Same as my dad. Loner. So the question is: Why?"

Quirrell's gray eyes bore into Harry's green. For a while, student and teacher just sat and stared..

Finally, Quirrell answered. "In the last one hundred years, dark wizards or witches of notable power have surfaced with increasing frequency. In the past two generations, in Europe alone, we've had two consecutive Dark Lords."

Quirrell paused, and Harry noted the lack of focus in the professor's eyes. "The Ministry," said Quirrell, "Was an absolute mess during Voldemort's rise. It assured the public everything was under control, when nothing could be further from the truth. That kind of cover-up helped the Dark Lord consolidate his power base faster than anything else. After the war, it became popular to blame the Minister, blame Voldemort, even blame dark magic itself."

"I _never_," said Quirrell, "Heard anyone blame ignorant, incompetent men. Even if they condemned families just as surely as a Killing Curse." Professor Quirrell shook his head and refocused on Harry. "One day, Mr. Potter, you're going to see the world go dark. When that happens, let no one say you are unprepared, ignorant, and incompetent. Let them say of you what none said of me: that you are ready."

In the ensuing silence, Harry realized he hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes in a very long time.


	18. Ch 18, Stranger

_As a medical practitioner, the potentials of magical healing astounded me. Even simple potions can change the body in ways modern science deems impossible. And yet, despite the depths of this mystic medicine, the field remains strangely medieval in many aspects. Surgery, for instance, is looked down upon as a barbaric, muggle practice._

_Magical Britain seems defined by such dichotomies. In some respects, their Arts have elevated them far beyond muggles. In other ways, they have somehow side-stepped our most rudimentary concepts._

_-Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_

-oOo-

Rubeus Hagrid was the first groundskeeper in Hogwart's history, and why the school needed a groundskeeper at all was still a valid question that cropped up from time to time. Ancient wards kept the grass to appropriate lengths, maintained footpaths, and repressed encroachment by the Forbidden Forest, so what was the point?

Luckily for Hagrid, any man who stood over eight feet tall was bound to find himself useful from time to time. Being a half-giant notched his handiness even higher, especially in the eyes of a certain Potion's Master. Every so often Severus Snape would siphon a few vials of the gargantuan groundskeeper's blood. In fact, it was entirely likely that Snape was the only man at Hogwarts who truly appreciated Hagrid's presence.

Other people simply didn't realize how expensive fresh giant's blood was. When he brewed any potion calling for pure giant blood, it was far more cost effective to substitute half-giant blood, and simply double the amount called for.

When Snape looked at Hagrid, he saw more than an emotional man with rustic speech patterns. He saw a fleshy bag filled with an ever-fresh potion ingredient.

Oblivious to his vaunted status in the eyes of the potion brewer, Hagrid began the final leg of his daily rounds. Just a quick walk along the Forest perimeter, see that the wards were up and running (as they had been since the day of their casting), and then he'd have a spot of tea.

He was nearly at the forest's end, and had decided that chamomile with a twist of pumpkin would be perfect on such a warm day, when he came upon a grisly scene.

A man lay face down on the immaculate lawn, just outside the forest edge, and he wasn't wearing wizard robes. The person was dressed up like a muggle, of all things. As Hagrid drew near, he could smell the tang of blood.

"Blow me down," he whispered. Hagrid knelt down and gently turned the person over.

The mystery man was cut to ribbons, and barely breathing. Through tears in the clothes, Hagrid saw swollen, green-tinged veins. Ignoring the mess that smeared onto his clothes, Hagrid scooped the battered man into his arms and ran to the castle.

-oOo-

Madam Pomfrey was reorganizing her tincture stocks when the infirmary doors were nearly knocked off their hinges. The healer turned in annoyance.

Standing in the doorway was Hagrid, covered in sweat and clutching what looked like a bloody mess of rags. Pomfrey drew her wand on reflex, and moved to the nearest cot. "Here," she said, already casting diagnostic spells on the bundle between Hagrid's arms.

"Might be acromantula poisoning," said Hagrid, laying the man onto the mattress. The sheets were instantly soaked. "He was laying on the forest edge. Don't know how long."

Pomfrey's eyes narrowed. Her diagnostic spell was not sending good news. She'd have to be quick. A wave of her wand caused a small army of vials and syringes to fly from cabinets around the room. They hovered around the healer like balloons, and she pulled a syringe from the air. A quick _scourgify _on the man's arm, and she injected him. Her other hand snatched another vial.

"Inform the headmaster we have an unknown in critical. Possibly muggle."

-oOo-

"Chocolate chuckle. Chocolate chuckle, now move it!"

The gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office hopped to the side and warily watched the half-giant. When a man covered in whipcord muscle towers over you like a mountain and fairly drips sweat and blood, you move.

Hagrid took the stairs three at a time, and reached Dumbledore's office door in a heartbeat. He knocked carefully, mindful of his strength, and only left a few knuckle-shaped dents in the wood.

"Come in."

Upon Hagrid's blood-soaked appearance, Dumbledore calmly rose. The only sign he was anything other than perfectly at ease was a slight thinning of the lips.

"What's happened?"

"Was doing my rounds, sir, and I found a man by the forest edge. Madam Pomfrey's looking at him now. It's critical, she says."

Albus strode to the door and Hagrid followed close behind, never pausing his speech. "Looked like the spiders got him, along with who knows what else. Thing is, professor, me and Pomfrey think he might be a muggle."

Hagrid, despite his massive stride, suddenly found it rather difficult to keep up.

-oOo-

Far away from major medical emergencies, Harry Potter was trying his utmost not to sneeze. A futile endeavor, considering the Owlery's condition. Dust, down, and feathers floated thick through the air.

After his talk with Professor Quirrell, Harry found himself wanting to hear again from his father. The two men were eerily similar to him, like two sides of the same coin.

With a flick of the pen, his letter was complete. Harry tied the parchment to Hedwig's leg and gave the owl a pat on the head.

"To Sherlock Holmes." Hedwig stayed in place. "Please?"

Hedwig rose into the air, only land again in front of the owlery entrance. She pecked twice at the door.

Mystified, Harry walked over and opened the door. Hedwig flew a few yards down the castle hallway and perched on a suit of armor. She looked back and impatiently hooted.

Following Hedwig through Hogwart's hallways was a curious experience, but Harry was more confused than worried. Until she entered the castle's east wing.

Facts, he reminded himself, Wait for the facts.

Hogwart's east wing held the infirmary.

-oOo-

Madam Pomfrey watched the headmaster from the corner of her eye. As soon as he'd swept into the infirmary and laid eyes on her latest patient, Dumbledore paled and sat down. Now he was steadily working his way through a bag of lemon drops.

Dumbledore paused in his candy binge, and looked sharply at her. "Will he make it?"

"He seems stable," replied Pomfrey, "Excluding poison, most of the damage was fairly superficial."

Dumbledore nodded and pocketed his candy bag. "Have you tested his magical core?"

The healer nodded.

"And?"

"Zero point two. Even squibs don't test that low. I don't know what to say, Albus, but this man's a muggle." Madam Pomfrey began to wring her hands. "I'm keeping him under stasis for now, but what do we do? Should I call for the Ministry? Send for Obliviators?"

"Calm yourself," said Dumbledore, "Here, have a Lemon Drop, and sit." He stood, maneuvered the mildly protesting healer to his chair, and gently pushed her down. "There we go. You did a good thing Poppy. A very good thing. And don't worry about Obliviators, this man is not a threat to the Secrecy Statutes."

"You know him?"

Dumbledore gestured toward the patient with a sigh. "I wish it were under better circumstances, but allow me to introduce Harry Potter's guardian, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Before Madam Pomfrey could respond, the conversation was interrupted by a flurry of white feathers. The healer watched in bewilderment as a large snowy owl settled on Sherlock's bed railing.

She angrily waved at it. "Go on, you! Off!"

The owl swiveled its head and fixed her with a glare. Pomfrey glared right back.

Dumbledore turned the infirmary entrance, and was wholly unsurprised at who stood there.

Harry Potter walked slowly, moving with a mechanical precision that spoke of careful control. He approached the bedside without a word, and stared at Sherlock's still form.

"Condition?" he asked.

Pomfrey wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "He'll be fine. It was touch and go for a second, but he's stable now. He just under stasis."

"In fact," said Dumbledore, "We were just about to bring him out of it, weren't we, Poppy?"

Madam Pomphrey nodded, and wove her wand in a complex pattern above the patient. "Finite Incantatem."

Sherlock stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. "Where?" he slurred. His head turned, and his eyes fell on Harry Potter.

"Harry?" asked Holmes, voice slowly gaining strength. "I missed you, Harry."

_Wrong_

A strange look passed over Harry's face, there and gone, like a cloud flitting over the moon. "Likewise...father."

Sherlock looked back to the ceiling. "Please headmaster, a moment alone with Harry?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore, "It's good to have you back, Mr. Holmes." The headmaster turned and motioned for Poppy to follow him into the infirmary office. Sherlock tracked their movement across the room before turning back to Harry.

"Come here, son." Sherlock spread his arms in an inviting hug.

_Wrong_

"I shouldn't. The healer thinks you could still be contagious."

"Ah," Sherlock nodded in understanding, "Later then."

"Of course, later." Another strange look flashed in Harry's eyes. "Now that I know you'll be alright," He glanced down guiltily, "What I mean is, my next class starts soon, and-"

Sherlock chuckled weakly. "I was a student once, you know. Go. We can catch up tonight."

Harry gave a curt nod and slowly walked to the infirmary doors. He gave a wave to Sherlock and quietly slipped from the room.

Then he ran.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

Students turned to watch the Boy Who Lived tear through the hallways. Before long he burst through a familiar door.

"Professor!"

Professor Quirrell looked up from his desk, and carefully laid aside a quill. "Mr. Potter, that door is an antique."

Harry strode to the professor's desk, and Quirrell noted a small muscle tick in the boy's jaw.

"Problem?" asked Quirrell.

"My father's in the infirmary."

"...And?"

"And something's wrong with him."

"So I surmised."

"Not like that!" Harry snapped. The professor frowned, and Harry took a deep, calming breath. "He's not right. His personality is all wrong."

"How?"

"He tried to hug me," said Harry, as if that explained everything. Quirrell's look clearly said it did not.

"Sherlock Holmes does_ not_ hug," clarified Harry.

Quirrell shrugged. "It's not unusual to see personality tweaks in hospital patients. Even so, I don't understand what you expect _me_ to do about."

"Could look at him? After classes today?"

"Mr. Potter, I'm a Defense Professor, not a registered healer."

"I know that. I just...please, sir? Just a quick look?"

Quirrell pinched the bridge of his nose. The things he did for emotional first-years. "Fine. I'll swing by the infirmary after dinner. Six o'clock."


	19. Ch 19, Quick Draw

Through quiet corridors a young boy walked. Harry slipped through the empty hallways and hastened down Hogwart's east wing. As he drew near the infirmary, though six o'clock had yet to strike, he saw the impatiently waiting professor Quirrell.

"I spoke with Madam Pomfrey at dinner," said Quirrell, voice laced with curiosity, "Her only patient is a muggle."

"Does that change anything?"

"It makes things easier. Muggles have little defense against mind magic. Even less than most."

Harry frowned. "It won't-"

"Harm him? Not that I'm aware of."

Harry nodded in relief and reached for the infirmary door. As they entered, Madam Pomfrey's head poked out from behind her office door. "Professor Quirrell? Is there a problem?"

Quirrell smiled winningly. "Evening, Pomfrey. And no, no problems. Mr. Potter just wants to speak with his father. If it gets past curfew, I'll escort him back to the dormitory."

Pomfrey nodded in approval and withdrew, softly shutting her office door.

The detective was sleeping peacefully, and Quirrell quietly drew the privacy curtain around the bed. Then he leaned over Sherlock's sleeping form and gently shook the man's shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes opened and met the professor's calm gaze.

"_Legilimens_." said Quirrell.

-oOo-

His arrival was marked by applause.

Quirrell crouched, wand drawn, and scanned his surroundings. The mindscape was a large white room. It was too stark and sterile- manufactured, that was the word. It reminded him of St. Mungo's mental ward.

Iron bars divided the room in half. On one side was, presumably, Sherlock Holmes. On Quirrell's side was a wizard. He was clapping, and wore a smile locked in mocking amusement.

Quirrell noted the wizard's snake-like eyes. Eyes like that took some very deep delving into dark magic.

"Congratulations," said the wizard, "I thought the deception was going smoothly."

"And you are?" asked Quirrell.

The wizard waved a finger in admonishment. "So formal. It doesn't cost anything to be nice, you know."

The professor bent his knees, minutely lowering his center of gravity. "Answer."

"His name is Voldemort," said Holmes.

Quirrell's eyes never left the wizard in front of him. They didn't even blink. "Is it, now?"

The wizard drew himself to full height. "It is, Legilimencer. You stand before the greatest wizard of our-"

"_Legilimens._"

Voldemort's eyes widened and flicked away, too late. "Fool!" he screamed. "You-" A look of pain crossed the Dark Lord's face, contorting his features into an agonized mask. He sank to one knee, eyes shut and breathing harsh.

Then he screamed.

Torrents of blood poured from Voldemort's ears, staining the pure white floor.

As the screams climbed in pitch and volume, Quirrell watched with unblinking eyes.

-oOo-

"MADAM POMFREY!"

Pomfrey's office door crashed open at the panicked shout. The healer rushed to Sherlock's bedside and threw back the privacy screen.

Professor Quirrell was leaning over Sherlock, and both men were frozen in place, eyes open and gazes locked. Harry held a bed sheet to the professor's ears, and with a lurch, Pomfrey saw the white cloth was rapidly turning red, soaking through to the young boy's fingers.

"Move!" said Pomfrey. She shoved Harry to one side and laid her wand tip to Quirrell's head. "_Finite Incantatem!"_

Quirrell continued to bleed from the ears, and Harry tried to pry the two men apart. "He used legilimens!"

"_Diviso Mentatem!"_

Like a faucet tuned off, the blood stopped. Quirrell listed unsteadily to one side and toppled from the bed. Before he hit the floor, Harry lunged, catching the professor in awkward hug.

Pomfrey helped Harry lower Quirrell to the ground, and hope blossomed when one of the man's eyes lazily opened. It was horribly bloodshot, and Quirrell gave a lopsided smile- one side of his mouth twitched, but refused to rise.

"You know...I think I killed him."

Harry glanced to Sherlock's motionless body, and hope wilted in a wave of sick fear.

Quirrell chuckled, a wet, painful sound. "Your smarter than that...he'll be fine."

"So will you," said Harry, words tense and carefully formed.

Quirrell's eyelids fluttered. "Make sure...make the others...ready."

A cough, a shudder, and Quirrell lay still.

Pomfrey knelt down, waved her wand over the man's blood-soaked head, and paled. She shook her head, unable to meet the eyes of the boy with red hands and broken heart.

-oOo-

For the second time in so many hours, Albus Dumbledore found himself in the infirmary. Pomfrey explained what had happened, and the more she spoke, the more he felt his many years.

"...He didn't make it," she concluded, shaking her head.

Dumbledore sighed. "And Sherlock Holmes?"

"Still unconscious. He seems unharmed, but..."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding and his eyes dulled even further. "But the mind is a delicate thing."

Pomfrey nodded, and the pair went to Holmes' bedside. Harry Potter sat to the side, gently stroking Hedwig as he stared into space.

Dumbledore laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Harry?"

Harry looked up at the headmaster with empty eyes.

"We're going to try and wake up Mr. Holmes now. Do you want to wait outside?"

Harry stood without a word, and moved to tightly grasp Holmes' hand.

Dumbledore sighed and raised his wand. "Very well. _Enervate_."

Madam Pomfrey held her breath. Please, she thought, that boy has suffered enough tonight.

Harry was the first to know. The hand he held so tightened in a crushing grip, then went lax.

Sherlock's eyes opened, sedately swept the room, and closed.

"Pipe first. Then talk."

It was a valiant effort on Harry's part, but he couldn't stop the tears from falling. Dumbledore's eyes regained some small twinkle, and reaching into his robes, he brought forth a lit meerschaum pipe.

Madam Pomfrey didn't even blink as Sherlock took the first long draw. Tomorrow she would berate men over tobacco in the infirmary; tonight it was all she could do not to join.

"How are you feeling?" asked Dumbledore.

Sherlock watched the smoke curl lazily upward. "Quit well, all things considered."

"Well enough for a few questions, perhaps?"

"Of course."

Poppy looked ready to protest, but Albus fixed her with a stern look. "Please, Poppy. Just a few."

The healer looked critically at Holmes, taking in his pale complexion and even breathing, and reluctantly nodded.

Dumbledore bowed his head in thanks, and turned to Holmes. "I'm a little concerned, Mr. Holmes. How did you get through the wards?"

"Wards?"

"Muggles cannot simply walk to Hogwarts. Save for today, the wards concealing this area have never been breached."

"I'm sure your wards are fine. It was not me who crossed them."

"Pardon?"

Smoke wreathed around the detective and drifted towards vaulted ceiling. "You may want to sit for this, Headmaster."

With a look of vague trepidation, the headmaster conjured three plush chairs, and the audience of three sat.

"Before I begin," said Sherlock, "I assume these wards act on a person's mind, correct?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Compulsion charms, among others. It compels muggles to remember things that need doing."

"Elegant," admitted Sherlock. "But _my_ mind was not affected, simply because I was not _in_ my mind."

The headmaster's vague trepidation grew into distinct unease, and wound downwards to his stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean possession, though the wizard insisted on calling it something else."

"And who was that wizard?"

Sherlock drew another lungful of smoke, and languidly released it. "Voldemort."

Madam Pomfrey gasped, and Dumbledore closed his eyes. A tense quiet settled, thick and loth to leave. It only broke from the Headmaster's next question

"What happened?" he asked.

"Quirrell happened," said Harry.

Three adults shifted to regard the boy, and Harry quietly continued. "You weren't acting right. You weren't acting like _you_, so I asked my Defense Professor to look at you. He used a spell called Legilimens. And then-"

"Legilimens?" asked Holmes.

"An advanced mind art," explained Dumbledore, "A sufficiently powerful wizard can actually project their consciousness into the mind of another, among other things."

"This Quirrell," asked Sherlock, "Middle-aged? Purple robes and turban?"

"That is the man. But how-"

"He was in here," Sherlock tapped his temple, "fighting Voldemort inside my head."

"And he won?"

"With a single spell."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Which spell?"

"Legilimens."

Dumbledore paled and sank back into his chair.

Pomfrey looked confused. "I thought legilimency was nonlethal?"

"It is," said Dumbledore, "Normally. But recasting legilimens when you're already in the mind of another...that is suicide, nothing more."

"I don't understand. How?"

Dumbledore sank deeper into his chair and droned on in an empty monotone. "In its highest form, legilimency completely separates the mind from the body, and inserts the caster's consciousness into the target. But to recast the spell, when the mind has no body to be separated _from_?_" _

The headmaster shook his head. "The Unspeakables did some research on the subject, but stopped early into experimentation. The caster and target minds never survived."

-oOo-

In the end, Harry refused to leave Sherlock's side. Near midnight Madam Pomfrey was forced to concede, and set a small cot next to the detective's bed.

Throughout the night, father and son quietly conversed. There was no weeping, no hailing of selfless sacrifice. They spoke of the mundane and commonplace, ignored the pall of death, and let lay the loss of life.

In the early morning hours, Sherlock gave voice to a final question. "Professor Quirrell, what was he like?"

He waited, and was sure Harry had fallen asleep, until a weary voice answered.

"Like you."


	20. Ch 20, Old Soldiers

_It was with familiar resignation that I read Holmes' words. The note was typed and sparse (in his fashion), and explained little other than acceptance of some case. In earlier days, I might have felt some distress over my friend's sudden departure; by now such actions were taken in graceful stride. This was not the first time Holmes had taken leave without notice. Truth be told, to leave any notice at all was, for him, the very height of decency._

_I occupied myself with work, and admit to indulging somewhat in Holmes excellent tobacco selection. One evening, during just such an indulgence, I sat before a merry fire with pipe and paper. December was drawing to a close and I found myself spending more and more time near a crackling blaze._

_Imagine my alarm when the merry flames roared into a green inferno._

_With a cry I sprang to my feet, only to sit once again, dumb-struck at what was happening. From within the very fire itself stepped Sherlock Holmes, irritably brushing soot from his robes- robes of the same quaint fashion fancied by wizards._

_In a thrice he was by my side, speaking with low, urgent tones. "Questions later, Watson. In a moment Harry will come through the fir, and you must be ready."_

_In my life, I have never wanted to interrupt a man so much._

"_Their healer wants him to spend time with his family."_

_The adrenaline hit hard and I opened my mouth to voice a question. Holmes cut me off with an impatient gesture._

"_Later." he said, glancing to the fireplace, "A professor died in his presence. If you believe the doctor's word, the man passed away practically in Harry's arms."_

_Knowing the boy was safe allowed composure to set in, and I was filled with the same tight, focused calm that takes me during medical emergencies. As I looked into the fire, I felt as though a patient was en route._

_Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD. _

-oOo-

Harry, McGonagall, and Dumbledore stood in a room of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry had not been impressed by the building's exterior, and it's insides were doing little to alter that opinion. Oddly enough, Holmes had rather liked the establishment. Unpretentious, he called it.

"Just take a handful," said McGonagall, "And say '221 B, Baker Street', clearly as you can."

They watched as Harry threw a handful of Floo Powder into the flames, step into the green blaze, and disappeared.

Only after he had gone did Dumbledore let down his twinkling facade. McGonagall watched the headmaster slouch slightly, drop his shoulders, and let his eyes fade to a dull shine.

Dumbledore heavily sat in a nearby chair. "I've done it again, haven't I?"

"None of that," said McGonagall, "You can't save everyone, Albus."

Dumbledore seemed not to hear. "And now _he's_ back."

"We don't know that. What Quirinus did..." McGonagall swallowed, "You Know Who wasn't a god. I can't imagine him coming back after something like that."

The headmaster nodded weakly and McGonagall hoisted the old man to his feet. "Up," she said, "We need to be getting back. My next class starts soon."

"Go on ahead. I've some business to attend."

"You're sure?"

"Quite."

McGonagall nodded, turned on her heel, and disappeared. A moment later, Dumbledore followed suit.

-oOo-

The headmaster reappeared in a place he had not gone for a very long time. He stood in forest clearing. Thick foliage cast the wood into perpetual gloom, and all around were tombstones. They rose from the ground without rhyme or reason, and faded into the surrounding tree-line.

He slowly wove through the sea of stone, pausing before some, hurrying past others. Two small ones, so close together they nearly touched, he brushed in passing. The names on their faces, Frank and Alice, cut into his heart far deeper than the words were carved.

This was his secret place; a place where he went to remember. Two days after the War started, he had started with a single, simple stone marker. It had been the first time he accepted responsibility for the death of another, but far from the last.

Every death and every grave came with a lesson he took to heart, but no matter how far his instruction in war progressed, they had continued to fill the forest.

He stopped at a cluster of three markers. With a wave of his wand, a fourth rose from the loamy soil, shaping itself from the very earth. Another wave, and letters carved themselves into the empty stone.

_Quirinus Quirrell_

_In Life a soldier_

_In Death avenged_

_Rejoined at last with those he lost._

-oOo-

Harry stepped through the fire into Holmes' sitting room, tripping over the grate into the firm embrace of Uncle Watson.

"Alright?" asked Watson.

Harry nodded and shook the soot from his sleeves. "The trip makes you kind of dizzy, is all." He looked around at 221 Baker Street, noting Holmes seated on the divan. It was good to be home.

"How's school?" asked Watson, aiming for casual and missing completely.

"I'm guessing you already know."

A small smile flit across Sherlock's face.

"Sharp as ever, I see." Watson scowled in mock annoyance, then sobered, "But let me know when you want to talk about it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't—"

"None of that, now. At some point, you _are_ going to talk about it."

Harry gave Sherlock a plaintive look, one the detective pretended to ignore.

"Can we do it later?" asked Harry.

Watson fondly ruffled his hair. "Whenever you're ready."

-oOo-

_He slowly warmed to the idea, and we spent many evenings speaking of his time at Hogwarts. In regards to the term's momentous conclusion, Harry has never before shown the depth of Holmes' influence. In spite of his youth, he moved through the stages of grief with astounding speed. As far as I can tell, he has genuinely accepted the loss and moved on; a victory I scarcely hoped for. _

_As for the deceased professor, Harry holds his memory and ideals close to heart. Indeed, the teachings of Quirinus Quirrell seem to hold weight equal to that of Sherlock Holmes. This was driven home for me by the visit of two students to Baker Street._

_On the day Hermione and Neville arrived, I was sure they were part of the Irregulars, that network of urchins Holmes employs on occasion. To my utter shock, I discovered they were, in fact, first-years from Hogwarts. To even greater shock, I found Harry had invited them._

_Small children—friends, even—visiting for no reason other than pleasure. Holmes was appalled._

_Ever since that day, I occasionally toast the memory of Quirinus Quirrell. From my evening chats with Harry, I learned the professor was profoundly plural. In contrast with Holmes' philosophy of independence, Quirrell taught that one's self was not always enough. Such teachings seem to have taken root in Harry, and I, for one, am ever grateful._

_Sherlock Holmes has always maintained friendship to be unnecessary, that it has no survival value. I, and now Harry as well, hold a different notion (one I like to think Quirrell also maintained)._

_For us, friendship is what gives value to survival. _

_Excerpt from __A Study in Magic__, by John Watson, MD_


End file.
